Monthly Archives: July 2012

Read the Restroom Door

I went to Ohio University this past weekend.  I graduated from there twenty years ago.  Twenty!  For those of you who may be reading this while still in your college years, I have this advice.  Stay in school as long as possible!  Declare a new major just before finishing your current one.  Consider getting a Master’s degree in anything.  Perhaps everything.

Those years were the best.  You get to make friends with people who will be in your life forever-there-after.  You get to hold almost no responsibility (aside from class work, but trust me, it’s far easier than the real world).  You get watch your university appointed freshman self destructing roommate drink and drug his life away, eventually drop out, and then land a job as the chief supervisor of camper village at Disneyland.  They wouldn’t even let him work inside the park.  I never felt like more of a success story than I did the day I spotted his picture on the vacation brochure.  Way to go, Captain Success!

When I was visiting my old stomping grounds, I had a vivid flashback.  There was this bar located uptown that my friends and I would frequent, frequently.  It was there that I learned the valuable lesson of “double check which bathroom you’re heading into before entering.”  You see, as you approach this particular set of bathrooms, the woman’s room is next to the men’s room, but recessed a bit further back.  Due to this odd architecture, as you approach the bathroom clearly labeled “WOMEN”, the wall blocks the first part of the word.  If you are not paying attention, you will only see the “MEN” part of the label.  Furthermore, if the men’s room has a group of people standing in front of it, it is easy to overlook.  Perhaps the fact that I had a little bit of alcohol in me was a contributing factor in this oversight.  Naw, probably not.  I took a picture to help visualize this scenario even more than my crystal clear verbal description has done.

Looks like two men’s rooms to me

So I pushed right in with no hesitation.  Why would you hesitate if you believe your heading into the men’s room and are opting out of double checking prior to crossing the threshold?  Luckily, there was no one inside as I entered.  I remember thinking to myself, “Odd.  They took out urinals and put in two more toilets since the last time I was here.”  …because that happens all the time.

So I’m doing what men do in a bathroom (sparing your brain the visually descriptive image), when a girl comes in.  I look over my shoulder and scoff a bit.  She lets out an apology, “Oh!  I’m sorry!” and leaves quickly.  Surprisingly, I still didn’t put it together.  I’m thinking about what a fool that girl was for entering the men’s room.

Upon exiting I got to experience a large round of applause.  The girl that “entered the wrong bathroom” put together a good size crowd to ensure that I understood who was actually in the wrong.  I put it together—finally.  It was a long walk back to my friends (an extremely long walk) as I was subjected to a line of woman cheering and clapping for me.  I felt like a football playing running through a tunnel of cheer leaders.  Only, I wasn’t so pumped up to be there.

With my face turning red I rejoined my friends who were just catching on to what happened.  However, to this group of guys, what I just did was awesome!  I breached the woman’s room!  I got a round of high-fives as they joined the applause and patted me on the back.  And then I really did feel like that star football player!

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Body Design Questions

There are some days when I feel like an old guy.  At the time of this writing, I am in the home stretch of circling the sun 42 times.  My body is in fairly good shape, but the aches and pains from years of shooting across our galaxy start to add up.  But, it’s not necessarily the aging process that is on my mind, it’s more of a question about the overall design of our human bodies.  Someday I’ll be dead and I’ll be hanging with God at Starbucks (I’m sure the franchise has infiltrated the pearly gates by now), and I’ll have questions.  Not the questions of “why did you make us” and “did my life honor you properly”.  No.  More like, why did you design us that way.  I don’t think I’ll be out of line with this area of questioning.  I have valid concerns and suggestions.  I need to know if He really thought this whole human design all the way through before cranking out billions of us.  I wonder what the prototype looked like.

At the magical mark of forty years old, my eyes have started that change—the change that requires me to hold a piece of paper at three or four different distances before being able to read it.  At times, I no doubt look like I am playing the air-trombone.  But my question here is not “Why do eyes start to go bad?”  No, my question is, “Why has our brain been designed to think that a two dollar pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of our nose is an acceptable look?”  We all can’t be librarians now, can we?

That is one ugly librarian.

Our knees go bad over time too.  Was there ever any thought into designing us with more than two legs?  There are countless examples of creatures roaming this world with more than two legs.  I think I would have spoken-up if I was there during the initial design meetings of the human body.  “Hey, those joints in the leg are going to fail eventually.  Why not design this human project with four legs?  If one starts to fail, these people creatures will be able to hobble around on the remaining three legs.  You know, like those ‘cat’ and ‘dog’ projects you keep talking about designing next.”

I think there may be room for improvement on the whole nose hair concept.  It’s a great idea and all, putting hair in the openings to catch dirt, dust, and other debris.  But why, oh why, does it have to increase the quantity and growth rate as our bodies get older?  Why does the body signal a need for more nose hair?  It’s not like the size of dust is changing with time.  The dust that I’m sucking up today is the exact same size as the dust that got trapped in my nose at a youthful age.  I can only assume that something is not quite wired correctly.  It probably has something to do with going bald.  You lose hair on the top of your head, but gain it in your nose.  The hair-growing wires going to the nose and to the top of the head probably should be separated further to reduce the apparent signal mix up.

My final question is this:  Why can’t I see my butt?  When I draw up a list of body parts that require a routine cleaning, my butt rules the top of the list.  What else even comes close to the top of the list?  Finger nails?  Nope.  Feet?  Nope.  Arm pits?  Close… but nope.  I’m guessing that original design had the waste management plumbing installed running in the opposite directions—solids to exit forward, liquids exit backward.  What went wrong during the final review process?  Who in their right mind would clean and wash dishes behind their back, put them away into the cupboard without looking at them, and then just assume that they were clean enough?

But then, what would the toilet look like?

Bare feet on a public toilet — Bad Idea.

Hmm.  Maybe everything is fine the way it is.

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In Closing,

I received a note via email today written by an old college friend from a long time back.  It was good to hear from him.  He concluded the note by writing the following closing.


He selected a rather simple closing.  The single word “best”.  I find this odd.  I’m fairly certain that I should not read too much into it, but the voices in my head won’t let that happen.  Best what?  Best regards?  Best wishes?  Best kick in the shins?

From time to time, I’ve seen this closing too:  “All my best to your family”.  Let’s assume for a minute that we are talking about wishes.

All my best wishes to your family,

Wait a minute!  Did I just give away all my best wishes?  Obviously, I must really and truly care for these people.  So much so, that I gave them all of my best wishes.  That leaves me with my pile of average and crappy wishes.  Let see, I still have the following.

“I wish I would win three dollars and twenty-one cents.”  It would be best if the jackpot was in the millions.

“I wish that the diarrhea would slow down.”  I can’t believe I gave away the best version where I wished that it would actually stop.

“I wish all of my toes would fall off.”  Nothing good about this wish at all!  I should have given this wish away a long time ago.

How about this closing: “Warm Regards”?  I’m not sure how you would go about changing the temperature of a regard.  I’ve never actually held a regard.  Are they heavy?  Would it break if I dropped it?  I suppose that if I were to be handed a regard, I would want it to not burn my fingers.  So, sure, “warm” is a good way for a regard to be handed out.  It’s a far better set of regards than:

Ice cold frost-bitten regards,
PS- Sorry about your hands.  I thought you were wearing gloves.

“With deepest sympathy” has probably been used for letters expressing condolences for a parted loved one.  I offer this advice.  Consider losing the word “deepest” because it reminds me of the six foot depth of the average grave site.  You wouldn’t elaborate on that closing with a description of exactly how deep, would you?

With a sympathy of approximately six feet of depth,
PS- The daisies are going to look beautiful!

The closing “Yours cordially” leaves me scratching my head.  I guess this is a fine way to wrap up a letter being sent from one cherry to another cherry.

Yours cordially,
PS- Sorry about the stickiness of this letter.  It’s the pits.

A nice way to end a letter to a loved one might be, “Always in my thoughts”.  This phrase should convey to its reader that you, the writer of this letter, are thinking kind things about you often.  But realize, if you would, that there is something missing.  This closing doesn’t really address if the writer is enjoying you always being in his or her thoughts.  You ever have “that song” stuck in your head for days on end?  It drives you so crazy that you would do anything to make it stop.

Always in my thoughts,
PS- I’m on the verge of sticking an ice-pick in my ear to make it stop.

I guess maybe I’m over thinking the whole closing thing.  At this point, however, I am at a loss on how to conclude this writing.  I clearly built up too much pressure for a simple exit.  There is no way I can just hit you up with a “Take care” or a “Sincerely”.  Ok, how’s this?

Approximately half of my best above-ground lukewarm thoughts cordially given to you,
PS- Buy my book!

My Son’s New Toothbrush

On my way home from work the other day, I was tasked by my wife to stop and pickup a new toothbrush for my son.  Apparently, he was goofing around with his brother while they were brushing their teeth.  “Something” happened (neither wanted to explain exactly what the something was) and my wife had to extract the toothbrush from the toilet bowl.  Of course, she moved it from the bowl directly to the garbage can.  No stops in-between.

I pulled into some convenient store and began my endless quest in search of a new toothbrush.  I can’t find where they stock them anywhere!  I’m pretty sure that I covered the entire store—not sure how I missed them.  As I am about to start my second pass up and down each aisle, I notice this lady creeping around and seemingly following and watching me.  Whenever I turn around to double check the aisle for the mysteriously missing toothbrushes, she quickly looks away or pretends to have interest in the items near her.  This stalking-like crazy behavior continues the whole while I’m looking for the toothbrushes.

I finally find the toothbrushes and select an appropriate one (hey, maybe this one will float).  I make my way to the checkout at the front of the store.  As I approach the end of the aisle, I notice that my “stalker friend” is making her way down the next aisle.  I can see through some of the displays and she is clearly racing me toward the check out.  As I reach the end of the aisle, I discover about six people in line.  The creepy lady jumps directly in front of me as I was approaching the end of the line.  She was carrying one of those two handled baskets and it was jammed full of all sorts of stuff.  She had hair coloring, cookies, a bottle of pop, several candy bars, a magazine, shampoo and conditioner, and bunch of other things that were out so sight as well.  Great, I’m going to be here forever in line behind the crazy lady.  I give her space.  A lot of space—wacko.  Even while we are standing in line waiting for the incredibly slow kid working the only open register, she is peeking over her shoulder, looking at me, and then quickly looking away.

I can’t take it anymore, “Hey lady, what’s your problem?”  Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but she was really freaking me out.  She apologizes for staring at me, but doesn’t really stop doing so.  “Really?  Why are following and looking at me?”  And then I get her answer.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just that you look so much like my son.  He was tall too.  And your face… Your face has all the same features.  My son was killed instantly in a motorcycle accident about two years ago.  I never got to say goodbye.  I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.  It’s just… never mind, I’m sorry.”

Well don’t I feel like a loser now.  Here is this lady having a rough time with some memories that I managed to stir up and I’m the one barking at her.  With a heavy heart I say to her, “Wow.  I’m really sorry for snapping at you.”

She replies, “It’s ok.  I should not have followed you around like that.”  At this point she is almost teary eyed.  And then she hits me with this request.  “Can you do me a favor?  When I leave the store, can you wave to me and say ‘bye mom’?”

Oh no!  No way!  What and incredible awkward moment.  How weird is that?  She wants to use me to say goodbye to her dead son!  Somehow I uttered “umm… yeah.  Sure.”  A couple of minutes pass by and I’m feeling more awkward than any other time I can think of in my life.  I feel like I’ve been standing in line for hours—even days.  She finally reaches the register for her turn and rings up all her stuff.  My mind is whirling.  She grabs her bags and heads to the door.  She looks back at me.  I raise a hand in a half hearted wave and say, “Bye mom.”  She smiles and disappears around the corner.  Well I’m certainly thankful for that to be over.

My mind is still swirling as I hand the kid at the register my son’s new toothbrush.  The kid scans it, pushes a few buttons, and says, “That will be $77.12.”

I say, “For a toothbrush?!”

“Yeah, your mom told me on the way into the store that her son would be paying for her stuff.”

Click!  The light in my head goes on!  Now it makes sense.  “You guys just got robbed!  Hang on I’ll be right back!”

I leave the register (and my toothbrush) and I dash out the door.  I spot the woman opening the door to her car.  I run over to her yelling, “Stop!”  I don’t even know what I’m doing.  I didn’t do anything wrong and yet I’m thinking about confronting and stopping her.  Just as I reach her car, she slams the door shut.  I reach down and open it again.  She didn’t have time to lock it.  She starts yelling, “Go away!  Leave me alone!”  I reached in and grabbed her shirt up by her shoulder.  She instinctively pulled away and fell over toward the passenger seat.  At this point she was sort of laying down on the driver’s seat and started kicking at me.  While trying to avoid her attempts at kicking me, I grabbed her ankle.  I wanted to pull her out of the car so that she couldn’t leave.  So I’m pulling her leg.  She is yelling.  I’m pulling her leg.  Just like I’m pulling your leg.

I’m pulling your leg!  Get it?  I love telling this story and I so wish I could see your face.  I told this story to my mother years ago.  She actually cried real tears in the middle of the story.  I felt bad.  But just a little bit.

Buy my book, it’ll be less stressful than this story!

Suit Yourself

I overheard a mother and daughter talking about something completely irrelevant the other day.  I believe I was in line at the grocery store and they were debating which flavor of gum to purchase.  The mother got tired of the conversation and wrapped it up by saying, “suit yourself”.  It was an effective means to the end of the discussion.  However, it left me thinking.  Where does that expression come from?  Suit yourself?

I think you call those kinds of word uses “idioms”.  An idiom is an expression whose meaning is not predictable from the usual meanings of its individual words.  Thanks Webster!  So, I get the use.  “Suit yourself” translated means, “I’m done talking to you.  My opinion doesn’t matter to you and so just do whatever you want to do in the first place.”  In some areas of the country, the translation differs slightly.  “I’m done talking to you.  My opinion doesn’t matter to you and so just do whatever you want to do in the first place, you stupid ass-clown”.

Where was the phrase “suit yourself” first used?  I failed to find the derivation of this idiom.  My Google search let me down.  I was searching for at least twenty-five seconds, so obviously the answer isn’t out there.

So here are my best guesses on where the phrase “suit yourself” came from.

Back in the old west, this guy was playing poker and his buddy was looking over his shoulder.  His friend whispered to him that he should draw into a possible straight.  However he wanted to play for a potential flush (where the cards are of the same suit).  Exasperated, the friend exclaimed, “Fine!  I think you’ll lose this hand, but suit yourself.”  And there was a lot of spitting into spittoons.

An Old West poker game

Or maybe…

There was this lawyer debating with his colleagues on whether or not to proceed with his case as a class-action suit or an individual case.  His colleagues failed to sway him to see the benefits of having his client join a class-action suit.  So concluding the conversation they said, “If you really think the client will see success without the class-action concept, then suit yourself.”

Or maybe…

Abraham Lincoln was trying to decide which suit jacket to wear for his night out on the town.  His wife had her suggestions and he had his.  Finally, after too much debate Mrs. Lincoln said, “You know you’ll be too cold in that one, but suit yourself.  The Ford Theater is always too cold.”  And the rest is history.

Who’s up for a play?

Don’t like any of these?  Fine, suit yourself.

Buy my book. Or don’t.  Suit yourself.

Dog Owner

I know this story might not make me too many new friends, but here goes.

Being a dog owner does not necessarily mean you are a dog lover.

There, I said it!  I know this is an unpopular stance in the blog world, but here is my take. There are bazillions of examples of blogs dedicated to dogs and their cuteness and all. I get it. I understand that a dog is a man’s best friend—at least I’ve heard that saying. It just doesn’t necessarily apply to this man. My boys cracked me and turned me into a dog owner after only ten years of their own existence. I bought a dog several years ago. I still can’t believe it roams in my house. We brought this dog home and I named him Peeve. As in pet Peeve. My very own living, breathing pet Peeve.

Not cute when barfing on the carpet.

He is a Maltese Yorkie. When full-grown, this little ball of doggy cuteness will not top more than ten pounds. If he surpasses that weight, I will start removing parts until the ten pound limit is once again reached. Relax, I would do it humanely—start with the tail, move to the ears, find other non-essential parts. Come to think of it, he has already been fixed, so technically I’ve already started this process.

So tell me, how many of your “best friends” will graze in your front yard, eat as many rabbit turds as possible, and then barf them up on your carpet in three different rooms of your house? Man’s best friend. Nope.

And speaking of pet peeves, it rubs me completely wrong when people refer to me as the dog’s daddy. I am the dog’s owner. I paid for, with money, to have this beast live in my house and occasionally eat my wood-work. It didn’t require a single strand of my DNA, not even a single helix, to bring this dog into the world. So when people say to my dog as they pass by my yard, “Good doggy. Go back to your daddy!” I cringe inside and want to scream! “I’m the dog OWNER, not the father! Are you implying that maybe I had inappropriate relations with a dog? And this is the result, my son?”  But I’ll just clench my teeth and be silent–until I blog about it.

My dog (that I own) brings my children happiness. That’s what I bought into.  If I would have known that all this happiness comes from a creature that occasionally craps on the carpet, I could have handled the job myself.

Buy my book or I’ll crap on your carpet!

Kill the Wabbit

In order to truly enjoy this particular story, you must have experience with Elmer Fudd and his rabbit (wabbit) hunting escapades.  In particular, the “What’s Opera, Doc?” episode.

My wife plants a very modest garden every year.  It produces just enough vegetables to get sick of having those vegetables by the end of the season.  In the past her garden has kicked out squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans and carrots.

To paint the picture with a bit more detail, we live in Suburb, USA at the end of a cul-de-sac.  The garden measures approximately one foot by ten feet and is located along one side of our driveway.  One faulty move of the steering wheel while exiting the garage and we can lose half of the year’s crop to tire tracks.  It’s hard to keep tire tracks out of your garden all season long—pesky little critters.  The garden may be small, but it brings my wife joy.  So when asked, I’ll continue to walk around the house to turn on the hose so that she can water her precious plot of land.

One year, she attempted to grow carrots.  The soil conditions in our neighborhood are quite poor.  If you dig down any further than five inches, you’ll hit a mixture of clay and contracted home builder’s yard waste.  You know, random pieces of wood, screws, caulk tubes, and pop cans.  It’s amazing that she can get anything to grow at all.  The carrots that year were hysterical.  They grew downward, as a good little carrot should, and then hit the clay.  Since they couldn’t push through the clay, the only thing they could do was to grow outward and plump up.  She grew “carrot balls” that year.  I didn’t even know that there was a distinction between male and female carrots.

So, the carrots were a no-go.  Scratch the carrot balls.  After all, they probably itch.  (Alright, enough ball references.)  How about beans?  One year my dear wife and her green thumb planted beans.  The beans were looking good until the rabbits moved to town.  Not only did they eat the green beans themselves, but the leaves and the stems too—all the way down to the ground!  They probably wanted the roots too, but they had no little bunny tools to excavate them.  Even if they had the tools, their lack of thumbs would have hindered the effort.  My wife declared war on the rabbits when she stated to boys that she “would pay five dollars for every dead rabbit”.  I think she meant it too.  One of our neighbors heard that the hunt was on and pleaded for us to chase the rabbits across the street to her house rather than kill them.  Perhaps she watched a little too much Bugs Bunny as a kid.

My boys don’t really have the proper equipment to terminate bunnies, but they were on the hunt with their air-soft guns and plastic bb ammunition.   The worst they would be able to do is blind the rabbit with a direct shot to the eyeball.  Even then, the one-eyed critter would still eat all the beans on the left side of the garden while thinking to itself, “Odd, I remember there being twice as many beans here.”  Truth be told, my boys haven’t even come close to killing, wounding, or even bothering the rabbits.  “Ouch, stop that you pesky little boys!”

And then the other day, the chase was on!  While my son was chasing a rabbit around the house, he dove for cover into a gutter downspout (the rabbit, not my son).  My son got a fishing net to cover the opening and we tried to bang on the pipe to scare it into the net.  No deal, the rabbit was moving and we were getting bored, so we left the net in place and went about our business.  Soon thereafter I noticed our fishing net crawling slowly across the yard.  My son walked up to it, bent over, and picked up the net.  Victory was his!  He caught the rabbit and I broke out into a chorus of (using the Elmer Fudd voice) “I killed the wabbit!  I killed the wabbit!  Killed the wabbit!”

I’m hunting wabbit.

Now what do we do with it?  It was this cute little adorable bunny.  We ended up carrying the poor little thing across the street to our neighbor’s yard.  “Remember when you said you wanted our rabbits?  Well here you go.”  We, as a group, let the bunny loose and watched it frantically scurry into our neighbor’s landscaping at which point my son asked, “Do I still get my five dollars?”

My wife paid the bounty.  And that particular rabbit is not allowed to cross the street anymore!

Buy my book, or the next bunny gets it!

Burrito Reward

I have a very good life.  I am grateful for my health and my family that loves me.  But there are little things in this world that just bug me.

I have a “rewards” card from a burrito shop near where I work.  When you fill up the card, you get a free burrito.  On Tuesdays they offer two stamps instead of the typical single stamp.

Looks yummy, eh?

Today, which happened to be a Tuesday, my card only had one remaining unfilled box.  So when I got my two stamps I had to ask for a second rewards card to hold the additional stamp.  Now I have two reward cards in my wallet!  Oh, the irritation!  Now I have to carry around this ever so valuable free burrito indicator as well as the not so valuable extra piece of paper for as long as it takes for me to develop the craving for that particular lunch stop again.  I don’t understand how other people can deal with this horrible inconvenience without outwardly wearing a constant look of frustration on their faces.

Of course, I am just joking.  But there was, in fact, a measurable amount of time where in my mind I was going, “Damn, this sucks.”

I pushed through.

Sorry, no reward for buying 10 copies of my book!

Chuck’s Cheese

I read an article recently that explained how the face of Chuck E. Cheese is changing.  If you have children, you know the place.  It’s that building where they serve lousy pizza, take your money for game tokens in exchange for paper tickets, and repay you by rewarding your child with toy trinkets that you will find under your car seats long after your child has started college.  Apparently the old mouse is being replaced with a new mouse.  A more hip, more cool, and more trendy mouse.

I can speculate that Chuck’s business model is struggling to survive and this change is the result of some recently promoted hot-shot who thinks he can build a better mouse trap.  Ok, maybe that’s not the right analogy.  Accurate perhaps, but not appropriate.  Well see now I have this vivid picture in my head of the old Chuck E. Cheese character bleeding from the eye balls trapped in a humongous mouse trap clamping down on his neck while the new mascot stands in the background shaking his head slowly.  And it would have to be a humongous mouse trap—have you seen the size of that rodent’s head?

It’s been years since I was subjected to Chuck’s mad house since my children are a bit older now.  But, when I saw the “mascot changing” news story, the memories flooded in.  We would always happen pick the day where every single parent in the entire state would show up.  The place would be jammed.  There would even be a line at the entrance where the incoming children and parents would have to wait for the same number of crying children to exit the building.  No one ever leaves Chuck’s house without crying a river.

The wait to get in was no doubt due to fire code and building occupancy rules, but I’m also sure the teenager at the door failed to keep the correct count.  While waiting for our turn to enter, I would be observing absolutely no space to walk from one side of the room to the other.  This will be fun.  Pictures of abducted children running through my head.

Once we passed the entrance queue, my little young boys would love to crawl around in that very complex maze of plastic sewer pipes.  That is exactly what they were—raw sewage pipes.  Children see this structure as the greatest indoor jungle gym ever assembled.  As a parent I was appalled–watching the not-quite-sick-enough-to-stay-home children with their faces just oozing out snot crawl around through the same tubes that I was about to send my children into.  It simply looked like a raw sewage system.  You know why those slides are so fast and fun?  They are greased down with several different bodily fluids from multiple children.

Regardless, I would follow my children on my hands and knees through the endless miles of muck filled tunnels and slides.  I think good old Chuck could have made an extra fortune by renting knee and elbow pads to the adults.  My knees and elbows would be raw and bleeding as I desperately try to keep up with my children who were short enough to simply walk through the tunnels.  “Oh crap!  My boys just went in two different directions!”  Maybe one day I’ll be reunited with them again, I think to myself.  Maybe one day.

There was this over-sized ball pit filled with colored plastic balls that my boys loved so much.  It was this large area where kids would romp and play and giggle and laugh.  They would also take turns throwing the balls as hard as they could at each other’s heads.  A wonderful playtime experience.

Once, my son yelled out a very happy noise as he stood in the middle of the ball pit, jumping up and down,waving a ten-dollar bill high above his head that he just fished out of the bottom of the ball pit.  How awesome is that?  Without hesitation, I dove in head first to join him with dreams of recouping some of the college funds that I wasted on Chuck E. Cheese’s institution.  Picture this crazy man sitting in the ball pit among several small children frantically scouring the bottom of the pit with both hands.  And then I hit the jackpot!  I felt a papery object, raised it high in the air, and exclaimed, “I got one!”  Only I was holding a used tissue.

The following noise I made was not a happy noise.  I grabbed my children and flung them and myself out of the ball pit, never to return again.  I think the “E” in Chuck E. Cheese stands for “Effing”.  If it wasn’t a place for children, the business would have been Chuck F. Cheese.

buy my effing book!

Rude Awakening

This weekend didn’t bring me a story to tell other than this very short one.  No worries, I had a great weekend.

When taking a nap, it is no fun to wake up hearing the following phrase echoing through your house.

“The dog is barfing everywhere!”

Remind me why I let a wild beast live in my house.

buy my book (no dog barf included)!