Plumbing Update

Robert the Plumber, my new bestest friend, showed up yesterday (just like he said he would) and fixed our water leak. To have a plumber show up the day after Christmas and restore running water - running hot water - to our household is pretty much a religious experience in my book. So it added to the spiritual nature of the Holiday, just like gift cards and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas". We're truly blessed to live in such a spiritually enlightened period.

Anyway, we dodged a bullet with that water leak thing. Thank you God. (And I'm really sorry about that "name in vain" thing when we first discovered the leak.) It was just a leak in one of the pipes that feeds the recirculating pump, and not a leak in the water heater itself. That's good, because we've got a large water heater stuck into a small closet. It would have taken Robert the Plumber, two or three of his tinted bilingual helpers, and dozens of obscene words (in two languages) to remove the water heater.

Robert the Plumber found the leak without too much trouble. By the way, that's not Robert in the photo above. Robert is sort of balding, but he's older, with gray hair. You want an older experienced guy doing your plumbing, and Robert is truly old school. No need for protective eyewear, like that pussy in the photo. If Robert got something in his eye, I'm pretty sure he'd just pry it out with channel locks. After he found the leak, he realized that his tinted bilingual helpers had removed the tools from his pickup, so we made conversation in the kitchen until his helpers showed up with the tools.

Robert talked about where he'd lived and worked before he moved to Austin. Then we commiserated about the weak economy and the fact that we're both trying to sell our houses. Apparently Robert's wife made him buy and move into a new house before they sold the old one, and saying this made Robert the Plumber roll his eyes. That probably explains why he was working the day after Christmas*. After about 25 minutes his helpers showed up, and Robert fixed the leak promptly.

I wrote Robert the Plumber a check for $ 187, which is a bargain. I had anticipated the need to sell the family silverware, or a kidney. Then we celebrated by flushing toilets and blowing out the candles. The candles were lit because, well, we hadn't been able flush the toilets for a while. Showers came after the water heater heated the water. Again, another religious experience.

I'm pretty sure that Western Civilization as we know it would collapse were it not for indoor plumbing and the availability of plumbers. That being said, a water leak in your house can be as devastating as a garage lobotomy or a Celine Dion concert without ear plugs. So before I even got out of the shower, my lovely wife replaced the water sensor alarm in the hot water heater closet.



* Either to earn enough money to make to house payments, or just to get out of the house.



At Humor-blogs.com, they're pretty disappointed in me right now because I wrote an entire post about a water leak without mentioning the hackneyed "plumber's crack".

The Greatest Gift

Despite our best efforts here at the Taunt Vortex household, over the last couple of years Christmas time has presented us with some unexpected special challenges. This Christmas was no different, but as the philosophers say, "That which doesn't kill me only makes me a seething cauldron of fiery vengeful rage." Or something like that.

To truly understand, we'll need to take the Taunt Vortex time machine back to exactly one year ago today, Christmas day - here, just climb into this cardboard box with the black and white spirals painted on the sides, and I'll set the dials. Cue the Sci-fi sound effects...


Last Christmas was pleasant enough, but sort of subdued for the Taunt Vortex household, as my 96 year-old Grandmother (who was living with us at the time) passed away nine days earlier. Naturally we were sad at her passing, but she had a good long life, and was fairly vital up until her last month or so. And by "vital", I mean she'd make us crack up by saying things like "Doesn't anybody ever say a prayer around here before eating anymore!" as we're starting Thanksgiving dinner.

Christmas Day 2007 started off like most others; exchanging gifts, followed by an afternoon of consuming enough food to feed a nation of supermodels* for 3 months. The challenging part came when later in the afternoon we noticed water seeping from the hardwood floors near the side door. I'm no home repair expert, but I was pretty sure that household water should probably be limited to pipes, sinks, bathtubs and toilets. Or maybe waterbeds if you're sadly still stuck in the 70s. So we had an extremely bad feeling about this.

Sure enough, one of the pipes to the hot water heater in the garage had sprung a leak, and had probably been spraying water against the wall and under our floors for at least a few days. It fucked up our hardwood floors like gravity fucks up cows that just happen to be 5,000 feet in the air. What followed was a 5 month long extravaganza of repairs, delayed repairs, re-repairs, and delayed re-repairs.

I had never given home repair contractors much thought until all of this happened, but apparently they rank fairly high on the "Loathesome beings with opposable thumbs and no concept of schedules, deadlines, or common courtesy" scale. In fact, I'm convinced that if you attended a formal academic debate arguing the pros and cons of the Bombing of Dresden, and if you stood up and stated loudly "What if the entire city of Dresden had been occupied solely by home repair contractors," all in attendance would would sort of shrug, gather up their papers and say "Well, yeah, bombs away!"


So you're still thinking about the title of the post, and you're wondering where "The Greatest Gift" comes in. Patience, my Adderall-deficient reader. Back into the time machine, to Christmas eve 2008. (For the best at-home effect, stand up, close your eyes, and spin in circles rapidly eight or nine times**.)

Last night my lovely wife and Princess were downstairs wrapping presents. I had already finished my wrapping duties, and was upstairs using the internets thingy. (I was actually reading an analysis of John Updike's Rabbit, Run. It's like the complete opposite of "It's a Wonderful Life" for those who savor holiday irony.) Suddenly, we heard a high-pitched alarm go off. We weren't cooking, so it wasn't the smoke alarms. And no one was trying to commit suicide, yet, so we knew it wasn't the carbon monoxide detector. My heart sort of sank as I made my way downstairs toward the alarm, realizing what it probably was.

It turns out the hot water heater had sprung another leak. Fortunately, my lovely wife had the presence of forethought to purchase a small battery-powered water sensing alarm, and place it in the hot water heater closet after the fiasco of 2007.



So The Greatest Gift I received this Christmas was the eight-dollar water alarm that my lovely wife purchased several months ago. It undoubtedly saved us thousands of dollars in repairs, as well as another insurance claim (although State Farm now has caller ID, and will promptly hang up when we call).

Because we had to shut the water off, we had to make adjustments to our Christmas Day plans. Instead of having Christmas dinner at our home, we moved it to my mother-in-law's, which is less than ten miles away. And you'd be amazed at how much you can fit into a standard toilet before you really need to flush it.

Merry Christmas All!


* For my demographic of male readers between the ages of 12-64, there isn't really a nation of supermodels. So don't try to book a flight or anything.

** The Taunt Vortex assumes no liability for broken furniture or emergency-room visits.


Even though there are a couple of Pagans at Humor-blogs.com, we should wish them all a very Merry Christmas anyways.

Office Gifting Hubbub

My lovely wife now has a job in a cubicle farm. She's worked there for a few weeks, ever since she got fired from her management job at that restaurant/coffee shop/bar. She's been working since she was about 15, and that's the only job she's ever been fired from. But I'm going to refrain from saying anything negative about her former incompetent stoner nematode-brained easily-duped lacking-in-even-the-most-rudimentary-managerial-skills douchetool owner, because my lovely wife is due one more paycheck. And you never know who reads these internet bloggy things.

The bad thing about the cubicle farm is that she's not utilizing her cooking and hospitality training, and there's really no creative outlet when you work for a financial services company (unless, of course, you're creatively duping consumers and investors out of billions of dollars and no I'm not talking about CitiGroup or even Lehman Brothers and why would you even think such a thing like that?).

The good thing about the cubicle farm job is that it's pretty much 9 to 5, with weekends and major holidays off. Oh, and she's still surrounded by co-workers with more emotional issues than the American Journal of Psychiatry. Sure, it's sort of stressful for her, but it provides me with a seemingly endless source of material for the Taunt Vortex.

Just this week, there was quite the hubbub over the usually pleasant yet hum-drum practice of office gifting. Of course they did the "secret Santa" thing, and one of my wife's co-workers wasn't pleased with the gift she received. Let's call her Haley - because I don't really care for her real name, which is Leah. I don't mind using it here, because odds are she won't be working at the cubicle farm past Valentine's day.

Haley was given a gift certificate to Chic-fil-A from her secret Santa. Haley then goes on to let my wife know that "Whoever got this for me just doesn't know me very well!" Why is that?, you ask, because you don't yet know any better than to engage Haley in conversation.

"I hate Chic-fil-A," Haley elaborates. "I think it's disgusting." Okay, so she has strong feelings about pale amorphous chicken sandwiches. But then her "secret Santa" tracks her down, and asks her how she liked her gift.

Most of us were raised and socialized to understand that these other animals on this planet that walk on two legs, have opposable thumbs, and use language also have these invisible things called feelings. In this situation most of us, even if we hated Chic-fil-A, would say something nice, like "I eat every single day, so this will really come in handy!" or "I really love their soft drinks!"

Not Haley. That part of the brain that is supposed to recognize and acknowledge the feelings of others? It's filled with pure blinding hatred for Chic-fil-A. And her Viking fetish - but you didn't hear that from me. So Haley tells her secret Santa basically the same thing she told my lovely wife, that she hates Chic-fil-A, and finds it disgusting. If there's ever an "American Ungrateful Bitch" reality show, Haley's gonna kick ass.

It's this level of emotional maturity and social skills that's going to have Haley ending up with a job that at no time requires any sort of interaction with other humans. Or any living thing, for that matter. I'm pretty sure Haley could even offend a sea sponge. Since she actually talks directly to customers, I'm almost certain that her remaining life span at the cubicle farm is a matter of days.

It sort of saddens me, in a way, because she could give me at least two good posts' worth of material a week. My lovely wife will be happy to see her go, but because she's mature and considerate, she'll probably throw Haley a going-away party. At Chic-fil-A.

At Humor-blogs.com, they're closed on Sundays.

Southern Accents

Our youngest child, Princess, was born in North Carolina. Barely. I had accepted a new position in Shreveport, Louisiana, so we moved from North Carolina when Princess was less than a month old.

Shreveport had its charms, which included the annual Mud Bug festival (if you're not averse to eating something that looks like a large insect) and summertime humidity that would often surpass the theoretical limit of 100%. They also had Mardi Gras parades, and a horse track nearby, so you could secretly indulge your decadent side without having to go to New Orleans. Because if you went to New Orleans, everyone knew that your only purpose was to commit abominations against the Lord. You could do that on the sly in Shreveport, but since we moved from there the riverboat casinos came in, and now if you travel there everyone knows you're planning on breaking at least a couple of Commandments.

After three years in Shreveport, we moved to Hoover, Alabama, which is just outside of Birmingham. (Or B'ham as the residents are wont to call it, eliminating the need to write down or verbalize the "irming" because it just takes too damned much energy in the oppressive southern heat.)

Being conscientious parents, we took all three of our children (including Princess) with us whenever we moved to another state. Although admittedly, there was often some debate. Princess went to day care while we lived in Louisiana, and then attended Montessori school when we lived in Alabama. I thought that after going to Montessori school she would come out knowing how to bake awesome Italian pastries - but that turned out not to be the case.

We lived in Alabama a little over a year, then moved to a small town about 25 miles from Fort Worth, Texas. Princess had spent her first four years and some-odd months growing up in the deep South. Soon after moving to Texas, she started public school.

Despite our best efforts, Princess learned the English language. I blame TV. And her older brothers. And those fancy book-learnin' schools. After a while we started to notice that Princess had this charming southern accent.

Instead of saying "here" or "there", she would say "he-yuh" and "they-yuh". We found it really cute, sort of like having our own little Scarlett O'hara running around (with her two older brothers providing their own Civil War, of sorts, as a backdrop). We didn't really see anything wrong with it at the time, until...

I suppose it was in first grade, when the school sent a note home saying Princess needed speech therapy. "Why?? It's so charming," I argued, to no avail. When I mentioned that no one had ever said anything about it when we lived in Alabama or Louisiana, the new teachers in Texas
just slowly shook their heads and got this very sad look in their eyes.

So Princess attended speech therapy for about a year, and now she has this marvelously neutral accent characterized by more than occasional sprinkles of four-letter words. We're still working on that, but I doubt we're going to have much success there.

What the Hell, I guess we'll just decide to find it charming. Dammit.


Stop by Humor-blogs.com, a damned fine blog of Humor.

Caption Contest: The Bush Portrait

On Friday President Bush unveiled the official Bush presidential portrait at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C.

The President's portrait was painted by Robert Anderson.

I would like to thank President Bush and Mr. Anderson for giving us here at the Taunt Vortex a welcome opportunity to host our exceedingly sporadic feature we like to call "Caption Contest". You may see similar contests on the blogosphere, but I'm pretty sure we came up with it first.

Without further ado (check archives for more ado, if that's your thing) we present two different photos. Feel free to submit your caption in the comments section, being sure to specify photo "A" or photo "B". Because, honestly, we don't want to have to think that hard. As is customary, I've taken the selfish liberty of providing my own first caption for each.

Photo A:


"Okay, I'm just about done. Where's the Constitution...I need to wipe."



Photo B:



President Bush, noticing the watch in his official portrait, thinks "Dang, it's later than I thought."



All complaints regarding my status as an America-hater should be directed with due haste to Humor-blogs.com, to the attention of Dick Cheney's well-reviewed humor and hunting tips blog.

Science Corner: Reproduction

The Termite Queen : while most live about 15 years, some have been known to live as long as 50 years. The Queen Termite's only job is to lay eggs. She will typically lay 30,000 eggs per day.

While most worker termites are blind, the queen has eyes, and can gaze with loving adoration upon each and every egg she shoots out of her busy bustling ovipositor*.

Just look at this doting mother. She seems to be saying "What a wonderful gift from God these uncountable eggs are!"







In a completely unrelated story, the Duggar family from Arkansas has announced that Michelle Duggar, mother of 17 children, has just given birth to her 18th child.




* also known as the BBO to trained entomologists.

At Humor-blogs.com, there's a rumor that I'm working on putting more "taunt" into the Taunt Vortex.

Another Anniversary - Part II

To recap for those who skipped part I : Twenty years ago tonight, I was tired and sleep deprived, driving my Mazda 626 south on I-85 in Virginia as it was getting dark.

What could I have possibly thrown into the mix to make the situation even more dangerous? Well, I was alone, so there was no one to talk too. In pornos and horror films there never seems to be a shortage of hitchhikers, but when you really need one they're never there for you. Hitchhikers suck like that. I would have listened to the radio, but we didn't have one in the Mazda. Besides, in that part of the country I could probably only get country music or evangelical Christian stations - both of which make driving while sleeping seem like the better choice. And I don't want to point fingers, but in its infinite wisdom the Commonwealth of Virginia apparently restricted roadside signs to the occasional monotonous green sign like the one in the photo above. Would it have killed them to put up a couple of distracting billboards?



See? There's a reason owls always look so wide awake.

The highway was very much like the one in the photo: straight, flat, with little traffic, no street lights and a wall of trees on each side. I was close to Dinwiddie* when it finally happened.

It came on so suddenly - I don't really recall fighting to keep myself awake, but the next thing I know my car is bumping rather violently. Even this only made my eyes to open halfway, and I saw my car careening off of the road, then there was a guardrail, then trees. At first my mind thought that it was still sleeping, and that this was a rather unpleasant dream. But by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. I hit a tree before I could swerve or hit the brakes.

I knew I had hit a tree. At least one. I don't recall actually hitting the guardrail, but according to the Commonwealth of Virginia I did. They tried to bill me for it. We're sorry you almost died, but you fucked up our guardrail. Please remit $$. Bastards.

Fortunately my injuries were relatively minor. I did sustain a concussion. When I came to I couldn't remember where I happened to be or where I was going. The most frightening part (other than the waking up to oncoming solid objects) was when I looked in the back seat and saw two empty child seats. At first I couldn't remember if the boys were with me, but then I realized that I was alone. Other than the concussion, I had a broken collarbone, a nasty neck sprain, and a few minor scrapes. Pretty lucky actually.

The car was leaning, and the driver's side door wouldn't open. In another bit of luck, there was a driver behind me that saw what happened, and he pulled over to help me get out of the car. Once I was out, they were nice enough to drive me to a convenience store where they called an ambulance. I tried to get the guy's name and number, so I could thank him for his help, but he wouldn't hear of it. Either he was genuinely considerate, or in the witness protection program.

The ambulance finally came. Apparently the Commonwealth of Virginia had been rather busy hypnotizing other drivers that night, because there was already another guy on a stretcher in the ambulance. I should have called ahead for reservations. Anyway, I had to sit in the back of the ambulance next to Mr. "I'm so lucky I get to lay down to ride to the hospital". I kept giving him dirty looks, but I don't think he noticed. I think he was playing the "unconscious" card for all it was worth.

The ambulance took me to a hospital in Petersburg - but not before they stopped for gas. In a way I'm glad they stopped, because I'm pretty sure if they would have run out of gas, I was going to be the one pushing the ambulance (broken collarbone and all) because the guy on the stretcher was totally useless. But on the other hand, I was pissed because a). I was in pain, b). I was still tired as hell and c). I had never never ever before in my life heard of a loaded ambulance having to stop for gas.

We finally got the hospital, where they took x-rays, put a collar around my neck, and determined that I didn't need surgery or sutures. They gave me some codeine for pain, which seemed like a good idea at first. It didn't seem like such a good idea when the sudden severe nausea kicked in, and I started puking my guts out while laying on the stretcher. I think that's when they decided that even though I had medical coverage, they had performed enough tests and I was good enough to go home.

Before the pukefest, the state trooper tracked me down to write me that obligatory ticket. He wrote me up for reckless driving. Fair enough. Then he tried to write one for not wearing a seat belt, which pissed me off on an astronomical scale, because I was wearing my seatbelt. That's why a). my collarbone was broken and b). my brains weren't intimately meshed with the bark of some pine tree. I argued with him, and he decided to not ticket me for that. But I could tell he thought I was lying. Jerkface. It's just bad karma when the only memory someone has of you (now going on twenty years) is that you're a Grandmaster level asshole.

Much to the annoyance of the hospital personnel, I just happened to total the only car we had, so I had no way to get home. They had to admit me overnight. Finally, I was able to get to sleep without being rudely interrupted by rapid deceleration.

My stepfather flew from Texas to North Carolina, where he picked up my lovely wife. The next day (December 18th) they picked me up at the hospital, and took me back to North Carolina.

Not surprisingly, I didn't get that job in Charlottesville. But I made a little money by modifying some bumper stickers so that they read "Virginia is for Losers".** But things worked out in the end. I got a position in Louisiana, where they make an effort not to maintain the roadways, just to keep drivers alert.

Before I finish, I do want to say that if I've offended any current residents of Virginia with this post, I'm sorry. And if I've offended any residents of North Carolina- tough shit. You'll get over it.

* why would any city voluntarily chose a name that sounds so much like "dim witted"?

** just kidding.



When checking out the blogs at Humor-blogs.com, make sure you're properly restrained.

Another Anniversary - Part I

Twenty years ago tonight I was driving from Charlottesville, Virginia back home to Durham, North Carolina.

It makes me shudder a bit when I call North Carolina "home" because I'm a native Texan, and I've spent most of my life living where they know how to prepare Mexican food and barbecue that you can swallow without intense remorse. But at the time my lovely wife and I were in Durham with our two beautiful young boys, Moose (who would turn 2 on the very next day) and Brick (who was born in September).

"What the hell were you doing in Charlottesville?" you ask, because you've never known me to have a Thomas Jefferson fetish. (I don't - but there was that month in 1977 when I had an unhealthy obsession with Weezie Jefferson). I happened to be interviewing for a job in Charlottesville, because the slackjaws in Durham failed to appreciate my hard work, intellect, exceptional hygiene, and intense desire not to do everyone elses job along with mine.

My interview session in Charlottesville wrapped up by late afternoon, and I headed back to North Carolina. I was tired. No, I was actually tired before the interview, and afterwards I was exhausted. You must understand that at this point in my life, I was working 80 to 110 hours a week. And the two young sons I mentioned earlier? They were sooo good when they were asleep - which averaged about 17 minutes a night. I'm almost certain that to save labor costs, the boys were encouraged to sleep the entire time they were at day care. I had been chronically sleep deprived for about 3 months. During my waking hours I'd catch myself daydreaming about what is was like to sleep.

To make sure that I'd be at my sparkling best for the interview(s) in Charlottesville, I made sure that I was on call the night before. There's nothing like two hours of almost uninterrupted sleep to prepare you for a job interview. Except for maybe yellow fever,or the shingles. Fortunately, I didn't actually fall asleep during any of my interviews, but there was one point where I'm pretty sure my eyes were crossing beyond my control. I would answer the interviewer's questions, but I wasn't quite sure which face I should be looking at.

After the interviews, I planned to drive to Richmond, then take I-85 south to North Carolina. Did I mention I was tired? I was getting hungry too, so before I got to Richmond I stopped to eat at a Denny's. Don't judge - compared to the local fare that was available in North Carolina, eating at Denny's was haute cuisine. It's also a great place to eat when you're exhausted, because you don't have to verbalize at all - to place your order you just point to the photo on the menu. And grunt.

The eating helped the hunger, but it didn't help the tired. Before I got to Richmond, my eyes started that crossing thing again, so there were times when there were two lanes on my side of the highway, but at other times I had the convenience of four lanes to choose from. When I realized that each car in front of me seemed to have an identical (and probably evil) twin, I decided to find a rest stop to, well, rest. Though it seemed like I could have easily nodded off and caught a few winks while driving 60 mph, for some ironic reason I couldn't fall asleep once the car was safely parked at a rest stop. But I did keep my eyes closed for about 20 minutes before I decided to hit the road again.

I made it to Richmond, and headed south on I-85 as the sun was starting to set. That led to the inevitable darkening of the outdoors.

Now, don't think of this as a two-part post. Just consider this intermission, so before proceeding to "Another Anniversary - Part II" take this opportunity to get a snack, visit the restroom, or discuss the post so far with your date.



Most of the other blogs at Humor-blogs.com don't make you go through the hassle of reading different posts to get to the banal conclusion like I do. Sorry.

Christmas Present Guidelines

I got a Christmas present from my big sister today. Well, actually I got an email telling me that I'd soon be receiving my present from her. Apparently she signed me up for a membership to the Nature Conservancy. I can't really say that I was aware of this organization before, but from what I can gather from their website, they're sort of like Greenpeace without the detonators and automatic weapons.

I'm cool with this gift. I was a Boy Scout, after all, so I developed a respect and appreciation for nature. (That deal with breaking all of those beer bottles? A one-time thing, I promise.) I haven't gone quite as far as my sister has and joined some subversive organization*, but as recently as two years ago I could be seen driving my Honda Civic Hybrid (until a surprisingly immobile fire hydrant offended my daughter in some way).

As I've gotten older I've become less tolerant of crap that takes up space, is costly to repair, and requires even more crap to maintain. I realize that our free-market economy is based on the ongoing production and consumption of crap (or as Keynesian Economists call it, The Crap Cycle) . It's just that at this point, I'd rather have new or interesting experiences than an Awesome Auger in the garage or a George Foreman Grill in the kitchen. ( Although if I were to meet Mr. Foreman in person, I'm sure I'd be more than happy to purchase 7 or 8 of his fine animal flesh searing devices. And now that I think of it, that Awesome Auger would have made burying that St. Joseph aspirin bottle in my yard pretty quick work.)

All of this got me to thinking about the sort of things I'd like to get for Christmas. If there's one thing that watching the "Little Drummer Boy" six or seven times taught me, it's that the meaning of Christmas is getting expensive gifts from total strangers while your pathetic and envious relatives look on. And that hitting a drum over and over is a good way to vent your frustrations. So if you're shopping for me (family members who can read - heads up) there are some guidelines you should try to adhere to.

First of all, note that my sister did a pretty good job. The Nature Conservancy membership comes with a magazine subscription. Magazines won't break, they don't take up much space, and are fairly low-maintenance. And when I'm done with it, it's off to the landfill. I mean it's off to the recycling bin. In an effort to be more helpful, I've come up with a list:

1). smaller is better (Keep in mind that when we move, I'll probably make you carry it if there's any chance that lifting it might make the contents of my abdominal cavity bulge in a painful and unsightly manner.)

2). practical is good - for example, clothes are ok if it's something I wear on a regular basis (T shirts, socks, flamboyant capes).

3). nothing that requires assembly, unless you'd like to receive it as a gift next Christmas (unassembled - with random parts removed).

4). books and CDs would be nice (but nothing that will get my name on the Homeland Security database)

5). tickets would be nice too (movie, local play, Fiji Islands)


In theory, gifts cards are good too. But somehow they always end up at the bottom of my sock drawer, where I find them three or four years later. By that time the retail store has a). gone out of business or b). my photo on the wall behind the register, precluding the use of said card.


Those are the guidelines. If you're already purchased a gift for me this year, that's cool. But if you wantonly disregard the guidelines after reading this, be prepared to listen to pa rum pum pum pum, played loudly, for hours on end.

Merry Christmas



* the Sierra Club

At Humor-blogs.com, they're all fucking supply-side economists.

Bush Legacy Tour Rocks On

Apparently George W. Bush is concerned about the legacy that he will leave after 8 years of, well, let's say a Presidential administration that leaves damn little for Barbara to brag about to the other shoppers in the produce section at the Fiesta Food Mart. But she still shows off those old black and white photos of W as a Yale cheerleader. Who would have thought that that would be the pinnacle of George W. Bush's career?

Personally, I wish George had showed a little more interest in his legacy about nine years ago, but better late than never, right? Fortunately for George, and America, and the entire fucking planet, there's nothing vitally important going on right now. So W has the spare time to worry about how my children, and their children, will view his Presidency. Good luck with that.

W has enlisted the stunningly mediocre intellectual power of the likes of Karl "I'm entitled to the math" Rove and Karen "No, I'm Not Your High School Lesbian Volley Ball Coach" Hughes to work on his historical image. Rove began his career dumpster diving for information about political opponents. He's most recently known for masterminding the overwhelming Republican victory in the 2006 mid-term elections (in Rankin county, Mississippi). Hughes started as a TV reporter, and her most recent job was to promote pro-American sentiment in the Middle East. Kudos, Karen! Thanks to you, I'm getting ready to open my first Quiznos franchise in Tehran! If you come by, I promise I'll give you the Infidel Combo at no charge!

I'm sure that when Karl and Karen were confronted with all of the positive material available for promoting the George W. Bush legacy, they were probably overwhelmed to the point of ordering doubles. Repeatedly. But they finally managed to whittle down the massive redwood of Bush Administration accomplishments to a few easy-to-remember talking points:

Bush kept the American people safe after the September 11 terrorist attacks.

Also, safe from boring hurricane seasons, safe from steady employment, safe from a balanced budget, safe from the hassles of home ownership and a respectable credit rating, safe from a leader that can tie his shoe and articulate a grammatically correct sentence at the same time.

Lifted the economy after 2001 through tax cuts.

Please oh please oh please, just ignore the massive recession that started in December 2007, the credit crisis, and the record home foreclosures. And if there is a Bush Depression, let's hope it's the kind that can be treated with prescription medications. Or alcohol. Or a lot of each. At the same time.

Curbed AIDS in Africa.

No argument there. But the Gates Foundation has done a lot in Africa too, and the only downside is that we have to put up with Vista.

Maintained the "honor and the dignity of his office".

Really? Really?? Are Karl and Karen planning on putting something in the water to make us all forget about Alberto Gonzales and the U.S. Attorney firings? Scooter Libby and the Valerie Plame outing? Torture? FISA and illegal wiretaps? And will my Brita filter keep my memory from being erased?

In keeping with the "honor and dignity" concept of the Bush legacy, George took a surprise trip to Iraq this weekend, less than 40 days before his term is (finally) over.





No matter what Karl Rove and Karen Hughes do from here on out, I'm pretty sure that that particular image of Bush dodging shoe(s) will be etched into my memory until the day I stop breathing. Nay, I will probably make an effort to recall this image during troubled times, or times of sadness, just to bring about a little smile (or spleen-busting laugh).

George, it looks like they love you as much as we do. Lucky for them, apparently they can afford shoes.



Visit Humor-blogs.com, where most everyone appreciates good shoe-throwing slapstick comedy. Especially if it's the leader of the Free World.

Boston Marathon

First off, to all of those who ended up here thinking they would find a webpage about the Boston Marathon that would actually help them run faster to meet the qualifying time - I'm sorry. This post isn't about the marathon. But seriously dude, if you'd get your ass out of that chair, lace up your Nikes and hit the road that just might increase your chances of making the qualifying time. And not to discourage you, but here's a website that features roughly 38 million people who could kick your ass in the marathon while wearing army boots and carrying your mother.

No, this is just another post about our seemingly futile efforts to sell our house and move into the city. I'm thinking of labeling all of these posts Sisyphean, but then again I don't want to give anyone the idea that I actually ever read any Greek mythology. Because I didn't. Not that I remember, anyway. There was that concussion back in 1988...

On Tuesday those nice folks from Boston took another look at our house. We got some feedback via our realtor, and there was some good news there. But let me put it in perspective : it's like your house is totally engulfed in flames, but there just happens to be a fire hydrant in your front yard. Editor's note to our insurance company: no, a house fire is not our plan 'B'. It's plan 'C' or 'D' now, I forget which.

It seems that they like our house. So it's still on their list of 4 -5 houses that they're considering. Whatdahell? Last we heard they were considering just four houses, so we had at least a 25% chance there. Now we're still in the running, but the odds are even less than 25%. (Please don't make me attempt the complicated statistics here. Let's just agree that our chances got a little worse instead of a little better.)

There's more. They will be ready to make a purchase, just as soon as they sell their home in Boston! Honey - time to call Mayflower!!




Editor's note to the perceptually challenged: if you stand far enough away, the Mayflower logo vaguely resembles someone giving you a well-deserved middle finger.

So these people that were ready to buy a home aren't really ready just yet, but they will be ready just as soon as they sell their house. Excuse me, I really need to wrap this post up. See, on my "to do" list for today is to test drive a Ferrari 430. I'll be ready to purchase it, just as soon as my numbers come in on that fuckin' Texas Lottery. I'm that close, I tell ya.

I knew it was a long shot to begin with. But if I had known then what I know now, I wouldn't have shoveled up all of that dog crap in the backyard. I'll know better next time. Oh, I'll still shovel the shit up and bag it, but instead of putting it into the dumpster, I'm going to save it as an aromatic gift for the next real estate agent that tells us their client is "ready" to buy a house.


At Humor-blogs.com, they tell me that I'm hitting the wall.

More Neighborhood Snarkiness

For those of you who read the Taunt Vortex with any regularity (insert your own laxative joke here) you know that we're attempting to escape the 'burbs and establish a more urban lifestyle* over the next few months.

I like to call our subdivision Entitlement Hills, and though some if its residents have provided me with an all-you-can-eat buffet of annoyance and consternation, they also provide us with unexpected moments that make us laugh at the dinner table. So if you dine with us, wear a bib and watch your eyes.

With that in mind, it's time to visit the neighborhood message board, yet again. The messages this week may seem to be about Christmas lights, but I think you'll appreciate the subtle politico-economic subtext that smolders just below the surface. The names have been changed to avoid litigation.

Ayn : Seasons Greetings! It is that time of year again for the "top secret" committee to judge the decorations and lights! The committee will be judging on Thursday December 11th, sometime between 7-10 pm. Winners will be announced on the yahoogroup and signs placed in yards. (Ed. note: we already have a sign, it says "For Sale".) If you want to participate, please make sure your lights are on at that time! Thanks!!

Ok, fine. I have nothing against Christmas decorating contests. But someone needs to sit down with Ayn, and have a good long talk with her about exclamation point abuse.

Karl: Will there be two judgings....one for those who paid to have their house decorated and one for those who did not?

Uh oh. It sounds like someone spent a lot of time untangling lights and standing on a ladder, and is a tad bit concerned that the Christmas decorating contest won't be based on hard work and merit, but on who just happens to have access to the most capital.

Ayn: The volunteer judges have no way of knowing who paid to have their house decorated and who did the decorating themselves. There have been many categories in the past years (most inviting, best street, kid's choice, most creative, etc) in an effort to give special recognition to many different levels/types of decorations! Thanks!

I think she's a little annoyed with Karl's post, because she only used two exclamation points. "The Committee" seems to think that by having a multitude of awards, it will help pacify the working class decorators by giving them a slightly greater chance of winning against those who simply wrote a check for their prize. It's much like the purpose of the lottery in a free-market economy.

Friedrich: (regarding Karl's post) Valid point

Friedrich is terse, concise, to the point. He agrees with Karl, but offers no real solution. I think that perhaps he just wanted to annoy Ayn further, and as a bold counterpoint to her excessive exclamation points he didn't even bother using a period.

Ayn: First off I would like to thank the volunteers who took the time during this busy time of year to judge the decorations! (More blah blah blah). Thanks to all who participated! Our neighborhood looks nice and festive and many will enjoy looking at all the lights during the hayride Sunday!

Ayn is happy now, back to her old exclamation pointy self. In that last post, she goes on to list in detail all of the decorating prizes. Sweet baby Jesus in a manger scene, there were twenty seven different awards given. In the interest of not wasting electrons, I won't list them all. But here are a few:

"Kid's Choice"

"White Christmas"

"Most Charming"

"Best Inflatable" (Perhaps they could have picked another word that didn't make some of us think of sex toys.)

There were also five awards given for Christmas trees, and one for "Nicest Doorway".

I don't think Karl won anything. Expect a revolution. We didn't win anything either, but we didn't have any outdoor decorations. Oh, but there is that little St.Joseph statue, er, bottle, buried in the front flower bed.

* Mark that as "overused word" #1 for this post.

Check out the header decorations on some of the blogs at Humor-blogs.com. It reminds me of the old country!

Thank You, Officer, Thank You

Princess finished her first semester of college yesterday. She aced* her Psychology final, then took off so fast that it made the proverbial "bat out of Hell" look downright lazy, sloth-like, nay, even moribund. The point is, Princess was excited to be getting out of San Angelo and coming home.

Despite her unbridled joy at the thought of leaving SuckAngelo**, Princess made a conscious effort to drive prudently on her way home. Once she hit the highway, she set the cruise control at 5 mph under the speed limit. Before she got out of Tom Green county, she passed a sheriff's deputy parked on the side of the road.

Now I know what you're thinking. "Why the hell would anyone name a county after Tom Green?"

I'm not really sure, but I think it was just part of that trend several years ago, where no-so-great places attempted to improve their images and boost tourism by ill-advised name changes. Hence, Tom Green county in Texas, Tom Arnold county in Idaho, and Cyndi Lauper county, South Carolina. Girls just wanna have fun, but trust us, it won't happen there.

No sooner had Princess passed the deputy, when she looked up to see him pulling out with his lights on. "WTF?" she thought, because she thinks in abbreviations like that. (Thank you, world wide web.) She hadn't been speeding, but she got pulled over anyway. It turns out that this conscientious deputy pulled her over because she was missing her front license plate. Princess explained that she had been in a wreck recently, which broke the bracket that holds the plate. The kind officer let her off with just a warning , and by "kind" I mean that he didn't strip-search her, taser her, or plant dope in the car resulting in her 6-year incarceration in a Texas prison with a cellmate that looks sort of like Amy Winehouse but can't sing (although she tries) and smells worse.

So today, I just wanted to take the time to thank that unnamed sheriff's deputy from Tom Green county. It really takes a man with the right stuff to put his life on the line like that every single day, pulling over 18 year old coeds with freckles, big brown eyes, and really straight teeth thanks to orthodontia that makes household budgets whimper and cower. I know that I couldn't do that every day, and then expect to go home and have any sort of not-awkward conversation with my wife over dinner. But you did the right thing, because just as soon as her car is repaired, that front license plate will be back in its rightful place.

This is important, because we all know that driving without a front license plate is a gateway crime. First it's driving without that front plate, then the back plate comes off, which leads to smuggling illegals over the border. That leads to trafficking hashish. And if you're any good at that and don't get caught, you find yourself steadily climbing the drug cartel ladder. Then one day you can't help but notice that you're being riddled with bullets in a south Florida mansion by some guy that looks like Al Pacino. Tragic.

So, thank you, officer, thank you, for saving my daughter from a sad and violent end.

Now, I don't generally condone or enable criminal activity, but for some reason I'm compelled make the following recommendation. If you're driving a tricked-out Escalade (at roughly 90 mph) and you're carrying 80 pounds of cocaine, 2 footlockers of firearms, and the Eastern European hooker in the passenger seat died 16 hours ago, just make sure that you've got that fucking front license plate if you're making your way to Mexico via Tom Green County.

* By "aced" I mean that she finished the exam in 15 minutes, but the word "aced" is in no way a reflection of how many questions she may have actually got right.

** "Suck Angelo" is her term. See what kind of creativity you get for just one semester of college English?

They don't give warnings over at http://humor-blogs.com/, they give slap-downs.

Clandestine Claus - Merry Christmas Marie

I'm taking part in the Secret Santa gift swap sponsored by Bee, because despite what you may have read here, or elsewhere for that matter, I'm usually not a cold-hearted insensitive bastard. My parents were married.

The lucky recipient of my gift(s) is Marie at Memarie Lane. The name of her blog reminds me of a Sheryl Crow song, but that's really neither here nor there .


I checked out Marie's blog, and tried to get a sense of what she might like for Christmas. She's married, with three young children : Max, Jessamine, and a brand new one only referred to as Baby-O at this point. At first I thought that a gift of some supernatural power would be nice (flight, invisibility, getting your children to pick up their toys the first time they're told), but we're supposed to post a photo of the gift. I tried to wrap my mind around the concept of a photo of invisibility, and I just couldn't do it. Despite what our dog thinks, I'm not Stephen Hawking.



Then I thought about giving Marie scads of money, like a cool million. First, that just seems impersonal. Second, I'm pretty sure that with the onset of a). further devaluation of the dollar, or b). hyperinflation, or c). ongoing stock market losses, that cool million will probably be worth about $ 46.27 in six or seven years.



I finally decided to give Marie the gift of full college scholarships for her 3 children. That's one less expense she'll need to worry about right now, but it's also the gift that keeps on giving. When Marie is retired, she'll be able to live comfortably from the support she gets from her three generous and well-educated children.



I considered various institutions of higher education. Harvard is an obvious choice, but since we haven't heard back from those people from Boston who were considering buying our house, I'm not having warm fuzzy feelings about Beantown right now. "What about Yale," you ask, because you have this romanticized fixation with Ivy League schools. Have you ever seen New Haven? I think the prospect of living there would make me gouge my eyes out. There's Duke, in North Carolina. Sure, you'd come out with a good education, but everyone will hate you.


I finally decided on the following three. First, the University of Texas at Austin.





UT is a large public institution, but you can get a great education there, in any area of study from Physics to Philosophy. (But I'd discourage Philosophy if you're counting on them supporting you in your old age). UT sort of has a "party school" reputation - but you know what they say. All work and no play makes Jack a Civil Engineering major.


The second scholarship is to Stanford University.







Stanford is a private research university, smaller than UT, and not too far from where you are now in New Mexico. Stanford has an excellent academic reputation, but I'm especially fond of the Redwood tree in the logo. That just rocks.


Let's be honest, some kids just aren't cut out for college. So for the third scholarship, I chose something a little different - a scholarship to the Culinary Institute of America in New York.







The child who takes advantage of this scholarship will have a great skill, the title of "Chef", and lots of cuts on his/her fingers. And if your children aren't able (or willing) to support you in your golden years, at least you'll eat well.

I just noticed from the "rules" of the swap that we're supposed to do this on Thursday the 11th.
Uh oh.


Bee isn't the only one with a consistently funny blog at Humor-blogs.com .

Hail Mary Pass, Real Estate Style

If you'll recall from the Final Four post, today is the day (or so we thought) that the couple from Boston was coming to take a second look at our home. Unfortunately, there was yet another real estate agent miscommunication. They are coming tomorrow. That's the ninth. Not the eighth. Their inability to interpret that complex alpha-numeric device known as a "calendar" actually worked to our advantage.

"So what did you do with this extra day," you ask, because you can't imagine anything that we haven't already painted, cleaned, organized, or unloaded into the Home Depot dumpster after dark. I appealed to a higher power. After doing extensive online research to understand the ins-and-outs of selling a home, I came across the practice of burying St. Joseph in the yard.



Well, not the actual St. Joseph. That would be cruel, and awkward, unless you had ready access to a backhoe. Besides, he's been gone for almost 2000 years now, and the odor would probably drive off most potential buyers. Some people claim that by burying a statue of St. Joseph in the yard, a home that is for sale will benefit from divine intervention. Busloads of buyers will then pull up in front of your house, and eagerly outbid each other for your humble hovel until you agree to sell to one of them at roughly 240% of market value.


Apparently there are different approaches for this custom. Some recommend burying the statue upside down, while others recommend right side up. Some advocate burying him in the back yard, while others suggest the front yard is the best option. Either way, stay clear of any underground sprinkler systems or Jimmy Hoffas. One source said you should bury St. Joseph near the "home for sale" sign, but I suspect that that tacky suggestion came straight from the mouth of a calendar-challenged real estate agent. In the end, most sources agree that it doesn't really matter as to Joseph's exact location and/or orientation.



If you like tacky, there are actually "St. Joseph Kits" that you can purchase online. The cheapest one I found was $ 5.99, and came with a little plastic St. Joseph, a prayer card, and instructions - because you don't want to fuck something up that is as sure-fire as burying a brightly colored resin religious figure in your yard.



I'm not Catholic, so I don't have any saint statues in my house or on my dashboard. Even if I ordered one of those St. Joseph kits online, it wouldn't get here until tomorrow. Despair set in, until I thought of another St. Joseph.




Indeed, a small bottle of St. Joseph baby aspirin cost me $ 2.79 at the local CVS. Thank you Jesus! Time (and daylight) was wasting, so I got busy.






I thought burying St. Joseph in the front flower bed would be less obvious than having a little pile of dirt protruding from the dead grass by the "For Sale" sign. We don't want to invite more suspicion or awkward questions.










This is one St. Joseph who got buried face up!


After you bury St. Joseph, you're supposed to say a little prayer. I didn't realize this until about 4 hours later, so I'm hoping the delayed prayer isn't a problem.


So tomorrow is the big day. Again. Unless they call back and say "Oh, gee, we're sorry, we meant January 9th." Potential buyers are considerate like that. But now we have the power of St. Joseph and the creator of time, space, matter, dimension, and housing markets on our side. Things are looking up.


I'll let you know how things turn out over the next few days. If we get the sort of results that I'm expecting, I'm going to suggest to the Obama administration that they bury a life-sized statue of St. Joseph in front of the Fannie Mae headquarters in Washington, D.C.






Yeah, right there in the front flower beds. That'll turn this mortgage crisis/housing slump around faster than you can say "credit default swaps".





If real estate doesn't give you enough laughs, try Humor-blogs.com .

Smashing Good Time

It's still not easy to talk about, but when I was much younger I was involved with a cult. I suppose as far as cults go, this one wasn't really special in any way. We all had to dress alike, we had a motto, a law, and an oath. Once a month we'd venture out into the wilderness together, away from civilization. Then I lost interest in being a Boy Scout when, at age 17, I suddenly realized that there were no girls in Boys Scouts - and vice versa.

I did enjoy going camping at first, but after a while the thrill of going #1 and #2 outdoors fades. I grew bored, as did a few of my close cohorts. We tried to maintain our interest by seeing what in nature could be lit and smoked (not much really). At summer camp we'd listen to Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin on cassette tapes. That would last roughly 2 days, then our cassette player batteries would start to run low. We'd still try to listen, but the tape player would slow down until it sounded like the guy from Crash Test Dummies trying to sing "Walk This Way". Those were truly primitive times.

Oh, sure, we'd do the usual Boy Scout activities to earn merit badges: hiking, swimming, cooking, learning 47 different knots (in case we were suddenly transported from the middle-of-nowhere Texas onto a sailing frigate in the Mediterranean). Sometimes we'd felt like we had already done it all, and then the boredom would set it.

On one particular campout, the boredom led to trouble. One afternoon I was sitting around with 3 of my cult-mates, trying to find something to do to stave off the soul-sucking boredom. It must have been at least 95 out, so the idea of building a campfire seemed contradictory to our goal of not being vaporized into fast moving subatomic particles. There was no place to go swimming, so despite the heat, we decided to go for a hike.

That hiking on a trail thing, with plants and birds and rocks and things - well, that was sooo Tenderfoot scout. We were more senior Boy Scouts, so we took the liberty of hiking down the two lane blacktop that brought us to the campsite. We thought we remembered a convenience store not too far away, and the thought of cold refreshing Dr. Pepper or Orange Fanta kept us going in that Texas heat.

After walking for quite a while, we couldn't help but notice all of the empty beer bottles and cans on the side of the road. You've got to understand that this was Texas in the mid 1970s, where drinking and driving wasn't just allowed, but encouraged. Eventually one of us (not me) picked up one of those unbroken beer bottles, and hurled it upon the blacktop. Amazingly, the bottle didn't break!

There was very little traffic on this highway, so before long all of us were picking up beer bottles and throwing them onto the highway. Naturally, some broke - but it wasn't really our intention to break these bottles. It was more like "Let's see what will happen when we throw these bottles onto the road!". Despite our best efforts, some of the bottles didn't break. Of course, a lot of them did break.

This went on for a while - until a State Trooper came by. Apparently some asshat with a CB radio ratted us out. They didn't realize that by breaking these bottles, we were speeding up the decomposition process of all of these beer bottles. It wasn't until later when we studied environmental science that we discovered that glass doesn't ever break down, but that's beside the point. The trooper asked us if we had been breaking bottles. Our minds were still under control of the cult, so we couldn't answer anything but "yes".

He loaded us into the cruiser, and it was the first time that I've had to ride in the back of a police car. He didn't cuff us, so it would have been pretty easy to overtake him, get his firearm, and leave him on the side of the road as we drove the Crown Victoria to Matamoros. But I had class on Monday, so it wouldn't have worked out.

I'm pretty sure that we were the first Boy Scouts ever (at least in our troop) to be brought back to the campsite via police cruiser. Sadly, there's no merit badge or special patch for that. I think there should be. Our adult leaders were understandably disappointed. It was at this point that we started to get concerned about what our punishment might be : jail time? sweeping up all of the bottles we had broken? more hiking?

They sent us home. Yeah, our punishment (for being bored, basically) was to be sent home, where we could watch TV, listen to Three Dog Night, and have unfettered access to a refrigerator chock full of ice cold corn- syrup based beverages. Sure, it was a long quiet ride home, and it was embarrassing to have to tell my mother why I'd been sent home early. But that was the extent of my punishment. I could be wrong, but I'd be willing to bet you a Bud Light that I (and my three bottle breaking buddies) had a more enjoyable Sunday that those Scouts we left behind.

At Humor-blogs.com, they look at you funny when you tell them you're pitching a tent.

The Final Four!

Yeah, we finally made the Final Four. No, I'm not talking about men's NCAA basketball - March madness isn't until, well, March obviously. Besides, we've got madness at our house 12 stinkin' months a year. On top of that, my lovely wife couldn't hit a jump shot to save her life (but you've to to respect her wicked passing skills). According to our real estate agent, there's a couple who's moving to Austin, and they've narrowed their choices down to four homes. One of them is ours.

Our agent says that of the four, they felt that two needed updating. Ours is one of those. I'm not sure what the hell they mean by "updating". Our house was built in 2001, and it's not like we've got a lot of naugahyde furniture, shag carpeting and lava lamps sitting around. (Of course that's only because my wife is in charge of the decorating.) We don't know about 2 of the other homes, but supposedly they are also considering the house across the street from us that's also for sale. That house is a little bigger, but they're asking over $ 100,000 more for that than we're asking for ours.

I'm not going to get my hopes up. To beat the basketball analogy until it stops whining, we're probably Gonzaga, and we're up against Kansas, Georgetown and North Carolina. We're just happy to be in the mix, but nobody is practicing cutting down the net. Nonetheless, we spent the better part of Saturday preparing for the finals on Monday. So just what did we do?

We cleaned the carpets. Well, to be honest, my lovely wife did. We rented the Rug Doctor from the grocery store. I tried to talk her into some cheaper alternative, like the Rug Chiropractor, or the Carpet Holistic Healer. She just rolled her eyes, and filled out the paperwork for the Rug Doctor.

It worked pretty well. We got new carpeting in July, and it was sort of an Ecru* colored Berber. Over the last four months it gradually transformed into a shade reminiscent of battleship gray.


Yeah, pretty much like that, but without the "63" painted on it. The Rug Doctor got the carpet darned close to the original color. Unfortunately the wet carpet restricted me to either a) one of the bathrooms or b). outdoors. Unless you count those high school years, I've really never enjoyed spending a lot of time in the bathroom. So I did some yard work.

I started by mowing the front yard. It's December, but it's also Texas. There are some blades of grass that just refuse to let go. It's sad, really. Pushing the mower over the lawn was mostly to get rid of the weeds and leaves, to give the yard a cleaner look. Things were going ok until I mowed under one of our oak trees. I used to think civil servants were the laziest mammals on the face of the Earth, but apparently we've got at least one squirrel who's too fucking lazy to even bother picking up acorns off of the ground. There must have been hundreds of acorns, and when I mowed over them it sounded like someone shooting an Uzi into a bubblewrap factory.

My mower is missing the little plastic guard thingy on the back, and by missing I mean it fell off and I haven't been in the mood to replace it just yet. Besides, I like living on the edge, even if I'm just doing yard work. Of course one of those acorns that the lazy bastard rodents from Hell failed to eat or bury shot out of the back of the mower and hit me in the neck. It really stung for about 20 seconds. It doesn't hurt now, but now I make this funny wheezing sound when I inhale.

In the back yard, it was necessary to decrapify the lawn before I attempted to mow. I'm just estimating, but it seems that my son's dog (Sparta) has the amazing ability to convert dog food into 6 or 7 turds a day. In the summer we can just let the grass grow two or three feet high, so we don't have to look at the dog shit. But in the winter it looks like a turd farm. The people coming to look at the house are from Boston, and I doubt that they would appreciate the fertilizer angle of having a back yard chock-full of canine kabobs. So into the yard we went.

I manned the shovel, and Brick held the large plastic garbage bag. We toyed with the idea of just heaving the turds over the fence into our neighbor's yard. They have three large dogs, and probably wouldn't notice, but in the end we figured it would actually be more work than just dropping the droppings into the bag. It's been pretty dry lately, and we had a cold snap a couple of days ago, so most of the turds had fossilized. We saved the worst four or five for last, those moist doughy stinkin' piles of crap that are even too nasty for flies to be attracted to. One was frighteningly large. I swear it looked like a water buffalo had wandered into our backyard - unlikely, since our goat sacrifices resulted in our HOA disallowing livestock. Outdoors, anyway. I couldn't help but to imagine how relieved (and proud) Sparta must have felt after getting rid of the livestock-class turd.

So today, in an effort to boost existing home sales and move the economy to its happy place, I killed some weeds, was attacked by an acorn, and shoveled shit. I'm not complaining. I just hope it works.

"So you're probably taking Sunday off," you say, because you won't be able to live with the guilt if I'm busting butt and your scarfing down barbecue chips and watching the Chiefs get embarrassed. Since the potential buyers are from Boston, we're going to be redecorating tomorrow, putting up Kennedy family photos, Red Sox memorabilia, and assorted Cheers chachkis. There will be Boston cream pie on the kitchen table, and Sparta will be made up to look like a Boston terrier.

Maybe, just maybe, Gonzaga can pull this one out.

* I'm not gay. I just like the word.

At Humor-blogs.com the oddsmakers have us at 9 to 1.

Avoid WUI : The Stunning Conclusion

The police were actually very nice about the whole thing, probably because they felt sorry for my lovely cramping wife. I gave them my best recollection of the unfortunate events, and I'm sure they questioned Nelson's brother and his friends too. I wonder if there's a special class at the police academy called "Questioning Upset/Angry Drunks 101". If there is, it's probably not a very popular one.

Because a pedestrian had been injured, we had to wait for a special accident investigation van to show up. It was just like the Mystery Machine - except that it was white, and instead of a large talking dog it had police investigators inside.

It didn't take them long to figure out that a). I wasn't drunk, and b). I hadn't been speeding, and c). Nelson and his associates probably had questionable intelligence and lousy judgment before they started drinking, and all the beer didn't make matters any better. I was concerned about Nelson, but I was also concerned about my ass - because I had a pretty good idea what might happen to it if it ended up in prison. Yeah, that image disturbs me too. The officer that I talked to reassured me, and was actually fairly non-chalant about the whole thing. I, on the other hand, was still feeling extreme chalantness.

"This happens all the time along here," the officer said.

Apparently the get drunk-leave titty bar-get hit crossing the highway ritual was as predictable and common and the Swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano, or Pauly Shore not winning an Oscar. You would think that there would be some alcoholic topless bar patron coalition that would petition the city for some sort of bridge or underground walkway to prevent such tragedies. For some reason that just never happened. I guess organizing drunks isn't as easy as it sounds.

Nelson had long left (via ambulance, with the pessimistic paramedic) by the time they finished the investigation. I kept waiting for handcuffs, or at least a ticket, but it never came. Still concerned about my liability, I asked the officer if he should give me a breathalyzer.

"Nope," he said. "I can tell you haven't been drinking."

He did give me his card, and told me to call if I had any questions. Horatio Cane never does that on Miami CSI. He just squints at you, then says something snarky. I'm so glad he wasn't there. Although I would have been ok with Calleigh Duquesne investigating the accident. Before we left, I asked the officer which hospital they were taking Nelson to. I noticed that Nelson's brother followed the ambulance to the hospital. Fortunately (since he had been drinking) he used his good judgment and drove his own car there, rather than trying to walk.

They finally let us leave, and it was a long drive home to godimgladidontlivethereanymoreville. I slept sporadically that night, and when I did sleep I kept dreaming about being attacked by giant white sneakers crashing through a plate glass window. Seriously, when you run into someone with your car, that horrific image sticks with you for a while no matter what you do. Sort of like Crossroads.

The next morning I decided to make that dreaded call to the hospital to check on Nelson's status. Honestly, I thought that he would be in either a). the intensive care unit, or b). the morgue. I briefly entertained the thought that he could still be stuck in the Emergency Room waiting area, waiting to be triaged. But that was just wishful thinking on my part.

So I called. I gave the hospital operator his name, and told them he arrived last night via ambulance. (This was way before sick people were given the right to privacy).

"He's not here," she said.

Crap. Either he's at another hospital, or worse, a funeral home. My mind was racing. What kind of flowers do you get for the funeral of someone you've just killed? Is there a book on vehicular manslaughter etiquette at Borders? Are those orange jump suits "one size fits all" ?

"Are you sure?" I said, "He came through the Emergency Room."

"Oh," the operator said. A brief pause. "He was treated and released."

What the fuck?? Mr. "he doesn't look so good" was treated and released?? He didn't even spend the night in the hospital?? My emotions were mixed. I was overjoyed that I hadn't killed anyone, but I was more than a little annoyed that I had wasted all of that worrying.

I put a lot of thought into Nelson's miraculous recovery. I have a theory that Nelson had so much to drink that the space between his brain and his skull was cushioned with two inch layer of alcohol. He got knocked out, was totally unconscious, but sustained no permanent brain damage - well, that anyone ever noticed, anyway. (I don't think we were dealing with a potential Nobel laureate here.) He simply needed to sober up in the hospital, requiring only IV fluids and Tylenol. I sometimes wonder if, when he came to, if he tipped the nurse and asked her for a lap dance.

I never heard from Nelson, or his charming brother. Nelson did try to file a claim on my insurance. My insurance company called me, and took a statement over the phone. I'm sure that when they saw the police report, they pulled out the extra large REJECT stamp, and stamped Nelson's file with a hearty guffaw. They do that at insurance companies. I've seen it.

The accident did do some damage to the hood and front end of our Suburban. Here's a little auto repair tip : when you take your car to the body shop for repairs, tell them you incurred the damage by "running into some asshole pedestrian". It really speeds up the repair process.

So if you've endured reading these three posts, no doubt you're left wondering "Doug, what's the lesson here? What's the moral?"

There are at least a couple, but if you can find more, feel free to do so.

#1. WUI* (walking under the influence) is a bad idea.

#2. If you're in a topless bar, that's probably as good as it's going to get for you. So you're better off just staying put.

#3. Living in a small town sucks royally.



* I chose "walking under the influence" rather than "walking while intoxicated", because WWI just reminds everyone of the horror that was World War I. And who needs that kind of stress?


At Humor-blogs.com , they blog under the influence.

Avoid WUI (Part II)

There on the pavement, about 15 feet in front of my SUV, was the poor guy I'd just hit. He was laying on his back, and his visibly distraught brother was bent down over him. I didn't see any blood, but the victim wasn't moving at all.

It turns out that these four or five young men were also returning from a Charity event. And by this I mean they had just been at a topless bar, where statistically there was a 120% chance that there was a dancer there named Charity. " Why were they crossing the dark highway at that particular moment?" you ask, because you have this knack for asking just the right question to move the narrative along.

It turns out, for whatever reason, that these young men found the beer and breasts to be lacking somehow at the titty bar on the east side of the highway. They decided to try the titty bar on the west side of the highway, and they decided to do so while intoxicated, and to eschew anything resembling an intersection or crosswalk. I'm also pretty sure that they decided to walk in a lined-up fashion. That's a great idea when you're seven, and your teacher wants to get the students from the classroom to the cafeteria in an orderly manner. But when you're drunk and crossing the highway, single-file probably isn't the best way to go.



Yeah. I pegged George. Now back to the body in the road. Let's call him "Nelson".

Nelson's brother, who was also drunk, was on his knees next to his brother. He was also holding Nelson's head with both hands, turning his head back-and-forth like he was simply trying to rouse Nelson from oversleeping. With only the light from my SUV's headlights, I attempted to check his pulse and to watch his chest to see if he was breathing. I had been trained in CPR, but anyone who's ever seen an Oakland Raiders game knows that you don't want to move an accident victim's head or neck if there's a possibility of a neck or spine injury. As I was preparing to perform CPR, I made the mistake of telling Nelson's brother that it "wasn't a good idea" to be moving his head like that.

It was at this point that Nelson's brother decided to go from a sad drunk to a mean drunk. Despite the fact that I was trying to save Nelson's life , his brother started to scream at me and threaten me. I seriously wanted to avoid being the second body on the road, so I backed off as Nelson's brother continued his quirky style of CPR. I waited back by the SUV to see how this experiment in natural selection would play out.

During all of this, my lovely wife was watching and waiting, seated on a guardrail not too far from the car. If memory serves, she had her cell phone with her and called 911. She can usually handle just about anything, but a body in the road was just a tad more stress than our three children routinely doled out. Everyone reacts to extreme stress differently, and her reaction typically involves gastrointestinal anarchy. Her lovely white dress was in danger of becoming not-so-lovely and not-so-white, when the police arrived. One of the nice officers walked her across the highway (no, not to the titty bar, but to a restaurant) so she could use the facilities. Disaster averted.

Fortunately, the police and paramedics got there rather quickly, so that Nelson could be properly attended to and I could be protected by sober men with batons and firearms. After they had worked on Nelson for a while and were getting ready to load him into the ambulance, I tried to find out how he was doing from one of the paramedics. "It doesn't look good" was all he would tell me. Great.

Now I had to try to keep from crapping myself.

Ok, I lied. I thought that I would wrap this story up in just two parts, but I sense that we could all use a little break right now, no? So I promise - there will be a conclusion in Part III of Avoid WUI.


Most of the other blogs over at Humor-blogs.com won't jerk you around like I just did.

A Public Service Announcement: Avoid WUI (Part I)

It's a tragic fact of life that there are some people who seem to be put on this Earth simply to be a bad example for the rest of us. These are people whose lives and actions we can look at and say "If I just do the complete opposite of what this particular person does, things will probably work out ok, if not superbly awesome". If you have family, or a job, or if you venture out into public, or watch C-Span, then you know of whom I speak.

On to the story. Or Parable, if you prefer.

I generally consider myself a pretty decent driver. I've only had two motor vehicle accidents. The first one was in 1988, but that was really more a matter of being a really sound sleeper than a bad driver - but that's a subject for a future post. The most recent car accident was a little over ten years ago.

One evening my lovely wife and I attended a charity auction in the big city. We enjoyed the evening, dining, being with friends, and contributing to a good cause. We didn't stay too late, since we had 3 young children at home. While we were there my lovely wife had a couple of glasses of wine, since we had 3 young children at home. Because I was driving, I decided not to drink.

It was after dark when we left the charity event. I was driving a Chevy Suburban because they were virtually giving away gasoline back then, not to mention our 3 young children who needed to be as far apart from each other as possible whenever they were in a moving vehicle. A Greyhound bus would have been ideal, had we been able to park it in our driveway. The drive from the big city to our home in godimgladidontlivethereanymoreville was roughly 30 miles. It would take us about 2 1/2 hours to get home. (Hey, Mrs. Thomas from high school English - see? I can do ominous foreshadowing. Bitch.)

I was driving down a dark 4-line highway on the outskirts of the big city. The moon wasn't out that night, and there were no streetlights on this particular section of the highway. The speed limit was 50. Inexplicably, I wasn't speeding. Suddenly, my lovely wife shouts "Look out!" and at the exact moment she starts to say this, I notice four or five people crossing the highway in front of my Chevy Pedestrian compactor.

I hit the brakes. Since it was a Suburban, it didn't stop on a dime - more like a 50 cent piece. But while I was skidding to a stop I couldn't help but notice a fairly loud "thump" as a pair of denim-clad legs and a couple of white sneakers magically appeared in my windshield. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared. It was the kind of visual that would have been cool and exciting had you seen it at the Omnimax Theater. But in real life? Not so much.

All of those horrifying driver's ed films* came flashing back as I realized I had just hit a pedestrian with a 6000 pound** object that is expressly designed to be not driven into other objects, especially living objects. I quickly jumped out of the car to see 1). if I had hit anyone else, and 2). to see if the guy I had hit was dead, or only maimed for life.

For the stunning conclusion to this story, see Avoid WUI Part II.

* Those driver's ed films were always hilarious. Until this happened.

** This is just a guesstimate. Google was taking way too long to give me the exact weight.

I think that at Humor-blogs.com some of the blogs can be read as cautionary tales.

Divorce by the Numbers

I've never been divorced. In fact, my wife and I have been married so long that they're thinking about naming a geological era in our honor - hopefully one with really cool dinosaurs. It goes without saying that divorce is a very sucky and difficult thing to go through. Just look a the guy in the picture. He's sad. He's leaving his wife and their only child. Divorce seems imminent. Perhaps it could have been prevented if he'd avoid wearing hospital gowns and stop carrying pink luggage. What an idiot.

I came across a quiz on AOL (yeah, I know - internet for the interbred) that was called the "Marriage Calculator" . It turned out to be a horrendously erroneous label, as it's really a divorce calculator.

You would think the people at divorce360.com would know that this is a huge and significant difference. You want a marriage calculator if you're a single guy who's enjoying his singletude (i.e., screwing anything with two X chromosomes and a MySpace account) and you want to know what the statistical odds are that you'll end up married - so you can take preventive action to avoid such a disaster. On the other hand, if you're happily married, you might want a divorce calculator to see what the odds are that you'll end up divorced - so you can have the advantage of being the first to get an attorney on retainer.

I'm pretty secure with my marriage, but what could be more reassuring that a divorce quiz based on census data from the U.S. government? So I dove right in.

First question : What is your gender?

Ok, that was easy enough, but unless the gay marriage thing takes off, I would think that the odds of divorce are 50/50 whether you're male or female. Of course, I slept through most of statistics. I entered male.

Second question: When did you marry?

I thought the choices would be "before pregnancy" or "after pregnancy". Turns out they give you a time frame. I entered 1980 - present.

Third question: What is your education?

I thought that if you went to acting school, or rodeo clown school, then the odds of getting divorced were almost certain. Surprisingly, those options weren't available. I entered college grad or higher.

Fourth question: How old were you when you got married?

Ok, do they mean how old she was, or how old she said she was? Turns out that they only needed my age for the quiz, so I entered 23 and under.

Fifth question : How many years have you been married?

I'm pretty sure they mean consecutive years. I know I said we'd been married a long time, but holy crap, 24 years was the highest choice available. I entered 24.

Then I hit "calculate". These are the bullshit results that I got :

People with similar backgrounds who are already divorced: 44%

People with similar backgrounds who will be divorced over the next 5 years: N/A

What the hell? I ran it twice, and got the same thing. The first part of the answer gives you no predictive data. It's like asking your doctor how long he thinks you'll live (since you have the Scandinavian drooling death), and he tells you that 44% of those who have had the SDD as long as you have are already dead. But will you live 2 months? Or 2 years? Or twenty? Do you need to cancel your cable subscription, or can you comfortably keep contributing to your ever-shrinking 401(k)? The first answer is useless.

The second answer, "N/A", is worse than useless. Have we been married so long that no statistical divorce data is available? Is divorce so common that my marriage is a statistical outlier of galactically freakish proportions?

I don't really think so. I just think that this is what one might expect from people who develop a website called Divorce360.com. They're probably just annoyed and pissed off that a couple could stay married for 24 months, much less 24 years. In their little fit of bitterness and jealousy, they simply fail to acknowledge statistics that make them feel not-so-good on the inside.

No wonder they're all divorced.

I love Humor-blogs , but I wouldn't marry it.

Tagged

I've been tagged. I knew there would be hell to pay if I kept making fun of scrapbooking. So Siren has memed (is that a verb?) me, and if I don't comply then apparently we're in for some post-apocalyptic horrors that will make Twelve Monkeys look like the Ellen DeGeneres show. I won't have that on my conscience, so here we go.

The rules state that I have to state the rules. God I hate rules.

Rule #1. Link the person who tagged you (done).

Rule #2. Post the rules on your blog (in progress).

Rule #3. Share seven weird or random facts about yourself. (I have a feeling that mine are going to be more random than weird. But I appreciate the flexibility allowed here.)

Rule #4. There is no rule #4.

Rule #5. Tag seven random people and include links to their blogs. (Hmmm. There's that random word again. I'm tempted to abuse rule #5.)

Rule #6. Let each person you've tagged know about it by commenting on their blogs. (Easy)

I could be extremely lazy and just lift my seven things from the list in my sidebar...but some of those things aren't true. So here goes.

1). If my choice of a car was limited to either a Honda Civic 4-speed, or a Mercedes Benz SL class with automatic transmission, I'd choose the Honda. Call me a transmission snob, but you're just not a real driver unless you can drive a stick.

2). On our first date, in an Italian Restaurant, I asked my lovely wife-to-be the following question: Would you rather be a giraffe, or a dolphin? She married me anyway.

3). Since completing my formal education in 1988, I haven't had a single day that I wasn't employed. (Although I've had 4 different employers since 1988).

4). The first non G-rated movie I remember seeing was "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid". I still get a little excited when I hear the words "Keep goin' ".

5). After the Beatles broke up, I made a vow that whenever I heard a Beatles song on the radio, I wouldn't turn it off or change the station until the song was over, until they reunited. I kept that up for at least a few years.

6). I once dated sisters - but not at the same time.

7). Once, when driving a Suburban, I hit a drunk pedestrian on a dark highway. It's funny now - now that the statute of limitations is over. Seriously, he was ok. But that's another story for another blog post.

Now I get to tag others. I just hope they don't turn around and punch me in the groin. Not that that ever happened before ...

A Gentleman's C

A Pirate Named Neo

Prefers Her Fantasy Life

The Bad Ones Hurt Forever

Talking Cupcake

Scattered Snapshots

Karmabutton


It's late, and I'm going to defer Rule #6 until the morning. I hope that doesn't create some irreparable rip in the delicate fabric of the blogosphere. Ah, who am I kidding? That's the entire idea behind this blog.

Sleep tight all.


I blame Humor-blogs.com for all of this, you know.

Neighborhood Cat-astrophe

The following is brought to you from the Entitlement Hills neighborhood message board on Yahoo - a virtual cornucopia of humor and intrigue.

This is the first message posted, titled "Found Cat" :

Has anyone lost a grey cat with two different colored eyes?
We have him/her in our garage right now if you are out looking. We didn't want to leave the cat outside as we have lost 3 cats in the past year to coyotes.

Three cats? Remind me not to ask you to pet-sit when we go on vacation. And it's precious how you're too modest to check the cat's gender. Here's the first reply :

I'm pretty sure that cat is a wild one. I've seen it coming through our yard for several years. I rescued a cardinal from its clutches a few months ago. If you want to do a service, you could take it to be neutered. Call Emancipet at XXX-XXXX or Animal Trustees of Austin at XXX-XXXX.

So, you've seen this cat around for "several years", and now you're suggesting that someone else get this thing neutered? You must be a joy to work with. Oh, and about rescuing that cardinal - where can we send the trophy? There's a second reply, of course, to the initial poster.

Did you find the owners? My neighbors XXXXXX and XXXXXXXXX have a grey cat with 2 different colored eyes. He has cancer in one eye. His name is Kidd* and he is a tom who roams free.

"He has cancer in one eye." That's sad. I'm pretty sure he's talking about the cat, and not the neighbor. So it's especially sad. But what's this about them letting this sick little kitty "roam free"? With the coyotes in the neighborhood (see the initial message, and here) is this just their sick approach to euthanasia or assisted pet suicide?

Indeed, the future looks bleak for this poor kitty. At best, he'll succumb to his disease, or the coyotes, or he'll get neutered. At worst, he'll live out the remainder of his days in Entitlement Hills. Life is hard.


* If anyone thinks that I've violated Kidd's privacy, note that I did not reveal his last name or SS#.

Humor-blogs.com is pet-friendly.