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.

Country Music

Anyone who knows me knows that I despise country music. I don’t use the word “despise” lightly. In the Official Book of Dieter’s Vocabulary (not available in stores…yet) the word “despise” is reserved for items and subjects to which I passionately hate with such vehemence that it induces physical illness and anger.

Lately, at work, I have been sentenced to listening to hours of country music. I have been contemplating a boycott or a one-man strike. If I didn’t have a family to feed, I would walk out because I despise country music that much.

Back in the early days of America, when country music was young, it defined a lifestyle; the cowboy working the herds, the farmer toiling in the fields or the blue-collar worker slaving over barrels of Jim Bean at the distillery. These people worked hard and described their hardships through earthy, folksy music with guitars, violins, gin bottles and harmonicas. Their hard lifestyle afforded them the right to complain.

Let’s take a look at today’s country music. Almost every country song these days is about love. Yeah, that’s original, love. Whether it’s a lover, son, brother, mother, dog or pick-up truck, it’s all about love. What about today’s country music singer? Are they working their hearts out to make a living in the fields, on the ranch or in a distillery? NO. These so-called musicians primp themselves up with “Country Clothes” to look like they are come from the hard lifestyle. Give me a break. The hardest part of their job is having to decide which bottle of vino to pop open in their modified Ford F350 limo (complete with store-bought steer horns on the grill).

The majority of Country Music fans are urban dwelling people, who rarely break a sweat at work, have never been on a horse outside of the pony ride at the fair and whose concept of the origin of alcohol is “It came from the liquor store”. These are the same country music fans that wear Stetsons in their Geo Metros and Ford Festivas. They often wear Wrangler jeans that are so tight, they can’t sit normally and have the Wrangler “W” imprinted on their butt-cheeks.

Not to disrespect those hard working people who still wrestle cattle, farm stuff or who still work in the Jim Bean plant. You have my utmost respect. You should be ashamed of the music whose roots were founded in the hard work of your occupational forbearers.

Tribute to Laurie: You are the Queen!

Fatherhood is great. I love being a dad, and I think it's a result of my son being such a stud. He is usually really calm and content. I sincerly think that he loves me, too. There is a minor dark side to our relationship. Lately, Noah has decided that he hates sleeping at night. This is difficult on me because I don't get much sleep; however, my suffering is nothing compared to the beating my wife goes through every night.

Over the past 3-weeks, here is a typical night. Noah goes to sleep around 8:00-8:30 PM. Mom and dad plop into bed around 9:30 or 10:00. At Midnight, we hear the tortured screams of our little boy coming from his room. One of us springs into action, usually, Laurie. Laurie gets up and tends to the wee one for about an hour or so and then slinks back into bed. Around 3:00 am, we hear Noah cry again. Laurie gets out of bed to take care of him for an hour or so and then comes back to bed. There is a repeat of this hellish process at 5:30 am, until Noah wakes up for good at 7:30 am.

I have thanked Laurie for her hard work. I have made numerous attempts to help her out during Noah's "no-sleep zone", but I think I fall short of what she needs. So this is a tribute to Laurie. She is the absolute greatest mother and wife on earth. Not only is she patient and loving with Noah during the day, but she maintains her patience into the early hours of morning and beyond. She is a saint who deserves to be spoiled with flowers and daily foot-massages.

Laurie, you are the Queen of our family. You have earned my gratitude forever. You are a woman unmatched by any other I have met. You have the right to punch me in the mouth anytime I complain, because you endure far more than I think I have the moxy for.

Zombie Movie with Midgets

There are no great zombie movies with zombie midgets. It seems unjust to exclude midgets from the ranks of the creepy, blank-faced undead. Little people can be terrifying zombies; in fact, I contend that they would be even more terrifying than your average-height, run of the mill zombie. Midgets, by design, would make the scariest zombies ever known.

Let's consider the facts:

Midgets have been the brunt of many degrading and humiliating jokes. This contributes to their midget-rage. If you combine midget-rage with the powers of the undead, you have yourself one bad-ass midget who won't hesitate to open up your skull and slurp your head hollow.

Midgets can fit into places that taller people cannot. Let's say there is an apocalyptic catastrophe that turns the majority of earth's citizens into brain-thirsty zombies, hell bent on killing all non-zombies. You are one of the few survivors and you are holed up in a “safe place”. With midget zombies, your safe place will become a zombie buffet. Midgets can fit in ventilation shafts, sewers, chimneys, underneath public restroom stalls, in the overhead baggage compartment of planes and other tight places that their larger, zombie compadres cannot. Once you have a midget zombie breach in your stronghold, say your prayers brother, cause’ your grey matter is as good as gone.

Finally, midgets would make superior zombies because their high-pitch screams would cause extraordinary terror in the hearts of their victims. The low moans and grunts of larger zombies are too tired and old. Those low zombie sounds have been used too often. Victims of large zombies are probably lulled into boredom when they hear their attacker gently moaning and grunting like a big zow. Imagine the heart-halting fright as a midget zombie approaches you for the kill and screeches like a mighty eagle! Oh, it gives me the chills just thinking about it!

Boo Hoo to you, Wussy-Boy!

Last weekend my brother-in-law came for a visit with a bunch of his friends. They are all twenty-something choir nerds who still live with their parents. Perhaps it's because the realities of responsibility have not settled in yet, or maybe it's ingrained in choir nerds, but they were hyper and a bit annoying. To relieve my frustration and boredom, I started to tease my brother-in-law. I started with some mild comments about nose-picking and poor hygiene practices. I think I threw in some jokes about the size of his manhood...Actually, I am not really sure what was said because I was in a ZONE, I was red hot! I was roasting my brother-in- law alive!

Well, apparently I offended him. He was sad and he let the things I say to him effect his mood. He said something about it to my wife, who in turn talked to me about it. I guess my teasing stung because it hit close to home. Maybe he really does have poor hygiene and really does pick his nose and eat it. Perhaps I will never really know. Considering he is not man enough to talk to me about it. Instead he runs to his sister with tears in his eyes. There is no honor in that, WUSSY BOY! There are one of two Manly ways to handle my teasing, and running to a woman, crying like a baby is not one of them! The proper way to handle someone's teasing is to either: tease the teaser back and have some fun yourself, OR talk to them face to face after the teasing is done and let them know that your fuzzy-bunny feelings were hurt.

Wussy-Boy, all I have to say to you now is Boo-Hoo.