Muscles

Last Saturday I missed going to the Gym. So I decided to do some pushups and jumping jacks at home. As I started the pushups, The Boy stopped what he was doing and watched me for a second. He got down on the floor and started pumping out some toddler pushups. Toddler push-ups involve assuming the push-up pose and then moving your legs from bending to straight. I commended him on the fantastic job and told him that he was building up his muscles. I flexed my arms and showed him my muscles. He followed suit and showed me his muscles.

After a set or two of push-ups, I started doing jumping jacks. Again, The Boy observed my odd behavior. He cranked out toddler jumping jacks; in which he jumped up and down and tapped his head with his hands. Again, he showed me his muscles after the jumping jacks.

We were hungry after our rigorous work out. I poured some Multi-Grain Cheerios (the best cereal on the planet) for myself and The Boy. Initially, he didn’t want to eat it. When I told him that it was “Muscle Cereal” he ate the whole bowl vigorously.

I had a lot of fun working out with my boy. It’s nice to know that some good things I do interest him. I was worried he would only learn bad behaviors from me. He has already said some naughty words because I have shot off my foul mouth in his presence.

No Church

On Sunday, we were frantically running around the house as we prepared to go to church. My boy was sitting in front of the TV, eating cereal and occasionally watching his crazy parents. We saved getting him ready for church until the last, because it is always a legendary battle to get him dressed. On Sundays, it is an epic war to get him dressed for church.

When I brought his ‘Church-clothes’ to him and started trying to get him ready, he protested and shouted in despair: “No Church, please, no church!” A wrestling match followed, as my wife and I teamed up against the thrashing, screaming two-year old. Technically speaking, the parents were victorious. The boy was completely dressed. However his appearance was not ideal. Noah sat there, sobbing in a white button down shirt that was previously ironed, but was now wrinkled from his thrashing. It was wet around the neck and chest from the tears falling from his eyes. His pants were twisted so that the button was almost aligned with his hip and his socks were floppy.

The war did not end with the clothes battle. As we approached the defeated toddler with his church shoes, his wrath was kindled anew. “No Shoes, Boots!” He was determined to win one battle on Sunday. He wanted to wear his snow boots to church. Normally, I wouldn’t care. But it was a warm day and I knew he would be extremely hot if he wore his boots. So, a new fight commenced. Again, the parents were victorious. The boy was beside himself with anger and humiliation. We served a cold and bitter helping of indignity that caused him to seethe.

As we dragged him to church, he continued his protests. I think he knew that he lost the war, but he was letting us know that he was not happy about it. Once we were at church, his attitude changed instantly. He happily ran to some seats and sat down.

The HHC

A few years ago my friend and I started a special club, the HHC. This club has exclusive membership. We do not accept applications or petitions to join. Rather, a member of the HHC must witness a certain act or behavior in order to induct a candidate into the club.

Imagine a young husband who has been married for less than 3 years. He and his wife seem happy and hopeful. Suddenly, the husband performs a behavior or act that kills the honeymoon. This act is the pivotal moment in a married couple’s life in which the wife actually re-evaluates her decision to stay married to this poor husband. The behavior or act could include any of the following; purchasing a game console, purchasing a large TV, skipping out on a family party to play basketball with your friends, being honest about how your wife looks in a particularly bad piece of clothing, washing your red shirt with her favorite white blouse or any other number of infractions. Whatever the behavior is, it must enrage wife so much that she gets mad enough to spit fire.

I performed a great insult last week that helped solidify my status as a co-founder of the HHC. Our T.V. went on the fritz. As avid movie watchers, we needed to replace the T.V. I found a used one on Craigslist for a great deal. This new (used) T.V. was significantly larger than our old one. It was a great deal and in great shape. When I went to pick up the T.V., I could tell right away that it wouldn’t fit in our entertainment center. I called my bride and told her that the T.V. was nice, but wouldn’t fit. She told me that she would let me make the decision. I understood that she was testing me, but my desire for this shiny, fancy TV overwhelmed my common sense. I brought the thing home, hefted it atop of our entertainment center and waited for the hailstorm that would inevitably come when my wife saw this monstrosity. When she saw it, she was initially silent. She made a few off-hand comments. I could tell that I hit the wrong buttons on my wife’s patience control panel. I suffered the mental torment and guilt that comes from making someone you love angry for a few days, but not enough to return the T.V. I had pre-determined that the guilt was worth the new T.V.

HHC stands for Horrible Husbands Club. If you are a married male and you anger your spouse past the point of patience, then you too can be inducted into the HHC.

Florida Dreams

It’s January. It’s January in Utah and we are experiencing sub-freezing temperatures. There is extreme inversion in the Salt Lake valley, which compounds the cold temperatures and chokes the clean air with pollution. This type of unwelcome weather is sheer misery for those of us are not related to polar bears.

A few years ago, pre-child, Laurie and I took a vacation to Miami, Florida. We stayed with some of our friends who were willing to put up with us for a week . Although it was late January and cold as hell at home in Utah; Florida welcomed us with warmth and sun. We stayed close enough to the beach that we were treated to comfortable ocean breezes and clean air whenever we were outside. Our trip was an exquisite journey that revealed how sweet life can be in January. Then, two years ago, I returned to southern Florida in January. This time I stayed with friends who live in Ft. Lauderdale. I was again greeted with warmth and sun. Perhaps not as warm as my first trip, but Utah had a record-setting blizzard while I was in Ft. Lauderdale, so I felt very blessed.

Needless to say, at this time every year, I start yearning for the paradise that is southern Florida. The combination of the supreme weather and the graciousness of my hosts have caused me to fall in love with the Miami-Ft. Lauderdale area. Granted, if I lived there I would probably long for different seasons. However, when I bundle up in my bed with 3 blankets covering my shivering body tonight, I will close my eyes and relish in the glorious memories of southern Florida.

Holiday Desperation

For many years I have endured the violation of the peaceful holiday season I once enjoyed in my youth. This is primarily due to getting married and fitting in the numerous, and sometimes superfluous, family parties that my wife’s family holds. My Christmas 10 years ago was as follows:

Christmas Eve:
4:00 pm – 8:00 pm Dinner and presents at my family’s house

Christmas Day:
1:00 pm – 3:00 pm Lunch at my aunt’s house

Peaceful and simple, right? Oh, how I cherish those holidays. Now, we find ourselves in a mad-rush, running from party to party, trying to see how many events we can go to; thereby avoiding the creation of inevitable offense against family members.

Here’s a recent sample of my Christmas:

Christmas Eve:
4:00 pm – 7:30 pm Dinner and open presents at my family’s house
8:00 pm – 12:00 am 2nd Dinner and open presents at Laurie’s parent’s house

Christmas Day:
7:30 am – 8:30 am Open ‘Santa’ gifts and stockings at Laurie’s parent’s house
9:00 am – 11:00 am Breakfast with Laurie’s Grandma
1:00 pm – 3:00 pm Lunch at my aunt’s house
3:30 pm – 5:00 pm Dinner at Laurie’s other Grandma’s house
5:00 pm – 8:00 pm Party at Laurie’s aunt’s house

With a schedule like that, how can you possibly remember where you are? The potential for calling a rarely-seen relative the wrong name is great. And how stupid do I feel when I thank the wrong person for the wrong gift?

This year, I put my foot down. I declared to my wife in the most authoritative and manly voice I could muster: “There will be no more running around in the bitter cold, wasting gas. No more losing our sanity as we cope with the shock of moving from one family environment to another.” I am serious. I would rather sit at home, enjoy being with my little family and spend some good time with each other. Besides, I want to start our own traditions in our house.

My sweet wife just gave me that maddeningly condescending smile. It’s a smile that is common in many women. They use it when they are trying not to scream at their spouse or children in protest of what they have just been told. I am sure that In the back of her mind, she was probably saying something like: ‘I own you, slave. Your requests are in vain. You will never have any rest on holidays as long as my family lives.’

Does anybody know of any good jobs on the East Coast, or Europe perhaps?

Flurer Lexicon

I recently spoke to a good friend and used some words that he was not familiar with. This is because I used words that are specific to the little piece of geography we call 'Our Home'. Some of the words are just plain silly, but they are used frequently in our home. Some of these words/phrases include:

Trout: used in place of the word 'throat' when describing the symptom of an illness that causes one's throat to be sore or swollen. For example; 'I have a sore trout'.

Dime-ma-maria: used in place of the word 'diarrhea'. Since 'diarrhea' is a funny word anyway, we thought we would add a little more silliness to a word that really describes a miserable condition.

SBE: this word was inspired by the acronyms that people use when text-messaging each other over phones or using an Instant Message program online. SBE stands for Sudden Bowel Emergency and is used when one experiences a sudden cramp in the bowels, followed by an insatiable need to evacuate one's intestines.

Cruck-Cruck: this phrase is derived from the sweetly innocent language attempts of our two-year old. He is utterly obsessed with trucks. Whenever he sees something that pleases him or that is exciting, he exclaims 'Oh, cruck-cruck!' We now use it in our house when we are excited about something.

Cry-hole: a term that became very popular when our boy was born. He would often cry or scream, as babies do, and as I placed a binki in his mouth to pacify him, I would say, "Stick this in your cry-hole". We use the term when someone is whining. For example "Shut your cry-hole"

Plogged: a hybrid word that crosses plugged and clogged. If one is stuffed up with an overabundance of mucus in the sinus or chest, we say that we they are ‘plogged’

There are many others, but these are some of my favorites.

The Holiday Mob

Thanksgiving is drawing near, and the Holiday Season has begun. The Holiday Season has some great memories for me. Unfortunately, these memories are tainted by my recent experiences with the Holiday Season.

People, who are otherwise rational, kind and generous, turn into literal monsters. They abandon their good virtues and start practicing evil behaviors. Their elbows and knees become destructive weapons. They selectively lose their hearing and forget all traffic laws.

It must be the result of the tension of buying gifts, getting the right ingredients for that perfect meal for the in-laws and dragging the kids around for their various holiday events that makes people crazy.

One year, I made the mistake of going shopping on the day after Thanksgiving. I was lured to the store by some phenomenal prices. After I was done shopping, I lost all faith in humanity. As I followed the herd of shoppers into the store at the brisk hour of 5:00 am, I was almost trampled under the feet of the horde. When I approached the areas where the good deals were found, the scenes reminded me of those jackal feeding frenzies you see on nature shows. Everyone was pushing, shoving, stomping, grabbing, biting and clawing just to get that stupid forty dollar T.V. I let go of the fear that gripped my heart and approached one of the feeding frenzies with cautiousness. At this point, I merely wanted to observe this anomaly in human behavior; however I was pushed in by an aggressive woman who looked like she could have been a kindly grandmother. I was buffeted by arms and elbows. In fact I took a good hit to the nose and it started bleeding. Out of spite, I started blowing my bloody nose on the members of the maniacal crowd. I was sucked into their bastardly behavior and started strategically throwing my own limbs around. My hands gripped the sacred item that everyone was willing to kill for. Then the pain really started. People stepped on my feet, kicked my shins, elbowed me in the head and stomach. I fell and crawled out of the group, my hands retaining a kung-fu grip on the package. An item that I really didn’t want or need was now a precious object that the mob desired.

After escaping the clutches of the blood thirsty mob, I brushed my clothes off and ran to the nearest check stand. I wiped my bloody nose on some kid’s hat as I jogged up to a poor cashier. She was stunned to see my gushing nose and commented on my swollen eye that would later turn into a beefy black eye. I made my purchase, and ran out of the store like a man who is being chased by rabid, zombie lions.

I was not feeling the peace and love that is supposed to accompany the Holidays. I hated every person in that store. I was soured for anymore holiday shopping and refused to enter any store until after the New Year.

So, my wife and I are committed to having our shopping for the Holiday’s done before Halloween rolls around. If we don’t get what we need by that time, we will just hand out cash. There are ways to avoid the Holiday mob and enjoy a warm and peaceful season.

Children Ruin Everything

Many of my friends and coworkers are pregnant. I swear that there is a new baby born every .10 seconds in Salt Lake. Everyone wants a kid, until they have one. They imagine that they will be able to enjoy time together with their new baby and patiently teach them all of the wonderful wise things that they have learned. Parents-to-be also vow that they will raise their child better than their parents raised them.

What new parents don't realize is that their lives are ruined as soon as that first child escapes the warm comfort of the womb and screams forth into this world from it's mother's vagina
Technically speaking, parents live. I mean we breath and blink and eat and poop. However, the life that was once filled with lazy Saturday mornings of sleeping in, going to movies at the drop of a hat and having long nights of steamy sex is dead. You will never recover that.

I will admit, I love my son and wouldn't trade him for anything. But parents only live to help their child(ren) survive, that is unless the parents are completely selfish a-holes.

When you become a new parent, be prepared to shed your playful, carefree days. Your life is over. You now begin a new life in which you function only to help your posterity survive. I hope that your marriage is strong enough to survive that change

Kill a Friendship: Join a Direct Selling Company

Nothing ruins a friendship faster than direct selling companies. In general, companies in the direct selling industry share a business model that requires its ‘independent sales representatives’ to recruit more ‘independent sales representatives’. These companies encourage you to recruit your family and friends.

One day, your brother, sister, best friend, neighbor or other close acquaintance is going to knock on your door. You open the door and there they stand. Perhaps they are accompanied by some goofy schmuck who is there to ‘support’ them, or perhaps they are going solo. Either way, you can tell that they have come for a purpose. For the next hour or two, they pitch a company or product. The idea is always the same: Pay for a starter kit and then go and bother your family and friends to recruit them. They profess and testify of the great riches that you will attain by joining their company. The entire time that your friend or relative is presenting, all you can think about is how you are going to let them down without ruining your relationship – and that’s the kicker.

As soon as you drop the bomb on your friend or relative, they are hurt. Because you don’t share their enthusiasm and conversion in their wonderful scheme, you are now persona-non-grata. This arrangement causes a great swell of anger to form in my gut towards any direct selling company. Thanks for ruining my relationships, jerks.

Direct Selling companies prey off of desperate people who need money to bring in their profit. Here’s how they take advantage of you:

1. They pay you a commission based on the number of recruits you sign up. This commission is a percentage of the outrageous fee they charge for their starter kit and for their product.
2. They call you an ‘independent representative’ or ‘consultant’ or any other euphemism to make you feel like you have support of a large company and network of people. In reality, you are a customer who brings in more customers.
   If you are good and brining in more customers, then you may make money. Remember for everyone that you bring recruit, the morons ahead of you will also get a paid.
   If you are not good at recruiting others, then you just contribute to the wealth of others.
3. Because you are not an employee, you get no tangible benefits. You don’t receive health and welfare benefits, vacation days, disability insurance, or any other group sponsored benefit. If you happen to be a healthy person, this may not be a big deal for you because you can get individual insurance. However, if you are unlucky enough to have an illness of any kind, no insurance company will touch you.
4. Their product is not unique. I was at a convention for direct selling companies in which I received free samples of face moisturizer from a few different companies. Each of these moisturizers smelled the same and when I tried them, felt the same. I also compared these free samples to a face moisturizer I purchased from my sister in law, who happens to be a ‘consultant’ for a direct selling company, and I found it to be undistinguishable from the other face moisturizers.
   
   There are other examples, but these are the biggest infractions that these damnable direct selling companies perform.
   
   Don’t join a direct selling company. Don’t allow friends and family to ‘present’ to you. Even if they say that they don’t mind if you say no, they really do mind. You will regret sitting through the presentation and will mourn the loss of your relationship.

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.

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.