Monday, September 7, 2015
How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 1
Be Childlike and Irresponsible
Note to Reader: Please pay attention because I'm only going to write this once.
I began my typical Saturday morning like any other 35 year old married man, by sneaking past the kids’ room with the blankets. The blankets I had delicately removed from the bed where my naked wife still slept. I've found that wearing these blankets over my head while I creep past the kids’ open door makes effective camouflage. I’m just laundry passing by on its way to the washing machine rather than daddy on his way to gracelessly maintain a slightly controlled fall down just enough steps to make me wonder if its a break or a bruise? Choking back profanity within primal, guttural syllables is gruntings punctuated with rapid audible inhales aren't nearly as analgesic as a "Mother f#( ker
Triage complete, I resumed my foray towards the living room with only one waypoint in between. I veer left into the kitchen for some breakfast juice: vodka and raspberry lemonade. This cocktail is well renown as the pantie removing solution which I applied heavily liberally the night before. Breakfast is the most important drink of the morning, I remind myself as I spill half the tumbler down my forearm in an overly boisterous breakfast toast, or toast to beakfast . Now, it was time to get on about my productive day.
Snuggling down
in front of the television with only minor protestation from my ankle, I
quickly change the channel from the ceaseless, senseless high-pitched squealing of
Nick, Jr. to the delightful, rejuvenating, and comprehensible violence of classic
cartoons.
Speed Racer, Bugs Bunny, and my all time hero, Roadrunner fill me with a sense
of completion mixed with the much coveted sensation of getting away with
something I should absolutely not be doing as a thirty-five year old married
man and father of two easily beguiled children.
Huddled
in my goose down feather-filled command post/sniper's nest, after the third reloading of the breakfast juice, I was really digging life in general. This was a wondrous, peaceful place
in a serene world with the therapeutic effects of comprehensible classic cartoon violence permeating my essence. Nirvana, without all the extra arms, I imagine.
Then, a tiny white fluffy seal pup is staring me in
the face. He looks so uncoordinated and goofy, why he’s just like me. He looks
happy, just like me. The camera pans back to include some flannel wearing
distant relation of Leif Erickson about to bludgeon my new fluff wearing friend
with a baseball bat. What the fuck?
Paradise
lost, the horrific imagery destroyed all the accrued joy that rocket propelled
roller-skates could provide. This was real violence, incomprehensible
violence, and the seal pup couldn’t even utter a “Meep-Meep” and escape at mind
boggling speed. What the fuck! The nubile blonde woman with the pert breasts
who immediately follows this nightmarish scene begins babbling about some
$9.00 a month solution. What the fuck?? (Nice tits.) What the fuck!! My
alcohol (over) enhanced sense of moral outrage leads to... (really nice tits) immediate
action... Defense! A murmur from my son upstairs reminds me that my moral outrage should
be limited to the silent variety.
What
to do? Carpet bomb Norway? Petition the UN to take Bjork or some other high
value lefse munching, lutefisk slurping, seal pup smashing target hostage?
Embargo the Finns from exporting unpronounceable names? There had to be more
that I could do, in addition to sending $9.00 a month to a nubile blonde woman
with remarkably outstanding cleavage. These poor, white, fluffy, uncoordinated
creatures were bereft of a means of defense. My alcohol lubricated neurons
fired into a brilliant Bacardi 151 blue flame... Fangs! That was it, fucking
fangs. Nothing could menace a club toting, seal pup mauling, longboat rowing Norseman like a
pair of seven-inch, razor sharp canines... with micro-serration.
Like
any good seal fang fabrication technician, of which I am the only one, I needed a
design. I was properly motivated and adequately inspired as I beamed down at
the prototype sketched in purple crayon on a torn Pampers box a scant four minutes
later. It was crude, but workable, but mostly crude, very nearly incomprehensible, but workable.
By
my fifth revision on the vodka raspberry lemonade the same drawing looked fucking
awesome! I was a goddamn seal pup dental Di Vinci. May I point out that I am the only one of those too. It was time
to move from the Renaissance into the Age of Technology with the wonders of
Adobe Photoshop 5.0. Just a few clicks of the mouse later, conservatively
numbered in thousands , my masterpiece was complete. I was satisfied that
I had done something positive for Mother Nature and scored points with Miss
Cleavage 1999, the fit-titted PETA spokes-chicky all before 8:00 AM.
I
settled into a well deserved C2H6O
meditative state. As I watched Speedracer go, go Speedracer go, I heard the
pitter-patter, skid, and pitter-patter of footie panamas approaching . In the
doorway appeared a sleepy eyed boy of five... OK, five and a half. His bossy
baby sister of three peeked around his shoulder. Robert was content to nestle
himself into my lap with over emphasized crash sound that he loved to make and
stared out the window. Sierra was having none of that, and apparently none of
this, or anything else either. I tried to coax her into my available side.
Nope.
"What
baby girl?” I desperately searched her scowling face for some clue.
Silence
surrounded her increasingly stern look of dissatisfaction. Remembering that she
was a "show me girl" rather than a "tell me girl" in the morning, I moved Robert aside,
stood, and took her hand. She lead me a few steps and then in a surprising
burst of speed circled back and sat directly on Robert’s head. Robert
protested and struggled to get his petulant sister off of him. This kind of
antic was how Sierra typically started her day. The minor melee ended in a
victorious big brother dealing out a harsh walking away to the toy box. Sierra
defeated, claimed my goose down feather-filled command nest and evicted her
brother simultaneously.
Robert
pulled out trucks and cars from the toy box and began vvvvroooming them around
the living room carpet. I retired to my desktop computer and ink jetted fanged
seal creation into 8½” x 11” life. After cutting eye slots and a bit of girding
with tape and string, I donned the fanged seal helm over my face. Perfect. I
felt much safer and far more attractive. I sat at my desk waiting for the kids
to notice. Minutes passed.
Long,
slowing minutes passed.
Creeping, agonizing
minutes dragged by me like crippled slugs.
Any
minute now, at least one of the kids would look up and see me.
Any minute.
Any
fricken ’ minute.
Fine....
I cleared my throat.
Nothing.
I
tapped the desk.
Nothing.
I
slammed a drawer. Sierra
started crying, then collapsed face forward into her goose down feather-filled
princess flower something. Robert ran to her and
soothingly said, "See-air-wah , don't cry. It's A-Kay. It's A-kay ." I stood up and came
to her aid, as well. Robert and I calmed and cooed Sierra, who
continued to sob miserably into the pile of goose down feather-filled flying flower whatever. Try
as I might, Robert would not look my way. He focused on the blubbering baby
sister and I was too, kind of. Then, Robert caught a glimpse of my fanged masterpiece's awesomeness and was instantly terrified by the menacing sight. Robert reflexively trembled in hysterical laughter. He laughed, I laughed, and Sierra sobbed
less intently. Finally, she couldn't resist looking any longer. She was
transfixed in dread and roared her approval, "Rrrrrarrr!" The sound she imagined anything with fangs would make. The living room exploded in fear
driven, pull-ups wetting, raucous laughter.
Laughter, that ended quickly when the deafening snarls of the angry
mommy dragon echoed through the room, ”What the hell... (mumble , mumble)...
knock it off... (more irate, indecipherable syllables)... Where’s the Goddamn
blanket?"
This was the real test... Fanged Baby Seal vs. Angry Mommy Dragon.
The kids fell silent and looked anxiously up the stairs where the profanity spewing dragon would emerge from her lair. I crept silently into a good ambush position
behind the wall. As the Dragon sleepily, but menacingly, shuffled into the
living room, I pounced. The flash of seven-inch micro-serrated baby seal fangs
ripped through the suspense filled air with a defiant "Grrrrr!" The
sound that I imagined anything with fangs would make. At once, the Angry Mommy
Dragon was startled into annoyance and mortally unimpressed. Given the
opportunity, she would have surely sat directly on my head. Like mother, like
daughter.physiology technology had ended in an
abject failure, a glorious but abject failure. If fangs could only entertain
small children and annoy an angry young mommy dragon, what chance could it stand against a
Marmot wearing, snowshoe treading, seal clubbing Viking son of a bitch?
Back to the drinking drawing board.
Note to Reader: Please pay attention because I'm only going to write this once.
I began my typical Saturday morning like any other 35 year old married man, by sneaking past the kids’ room with the blankets. The blankets I had delicately removed from the bed where my naked wife still slept. I've found that wearing these blankets over my head while I creep past the kids’ open door makes effective camouflage. I’m just laundry passing by on its way to the washing machine rather than daddy on his way to gracelessly maintain a slightly controlled fall down just enough steps to make me wonder if its a break or a bruise? Choking back profanity within primal, guttural syllables is gruntings punctuated with rapid audible inhales aren't nearly as analgesic as a "Mother f#( ker
Triage complete, I resumed my foray towards the living room with only one waypoint in between. I veer left into the kitchen for some breakfast juice: vodka and raspberry lemonade. This cocktail is well renown as the pantie removing solution which I applied
Snuggling down
in front of the television with only minor protestation from my ankle, I
quickly change the channel from the ceaseless, senseless high-pitched squealing of
Nick, Jr. to the delightful, rejuvenating, and comprehensible violence of classic
cartoons.
Speed Racer, Bugs Bunny, and my all time hero, Roadrunner fill me with a sense of completion mixed with the much coveted sensation of getting away with something I should absolutely not be doing as a thirty-five year old married man and father of two easily beguiled children.
Huddled
in my goose down feather-filled command post/sniper's nest, after the third reloading of the breakfast juice, I was really digging life in general. This was a wondrous, peaceful place
in a serene world with the therapeutic effects of comprehensible classic cartoon violence permeating my essence. Nirvana, without all the extra arms, I imagine.
Then, a tiny white fluffy seal pup is staring me in the face. He looks so uncoordinated and goofy, why he’s just like me. He looks happy, just like me. The camera pans back to include some flannel wearing distant relation of Leif Erickson about to bludgeon my new fluff wearing friend with a baseball bat. What the fuck?
Then, a tiny white fluffy seal pup is staring me in the face. He looks so uncoordinated and goofy, why he’s just like me. He looks happy, just like me. The camera pans back to include some flannel wearing distant relation of Leif Erickson about to bludgeon my new fluff wearing friend with a baseball bat. What the fuck?
Paradise
lost, the horrific imagery destroyed all the accrued joy that rocket propelled
roller-skates could provide. This was real violence, incomprehensible
violence, and the seal pup couldn’t even utter a “Meep-Meep” and escape at mind
boggling speed. What the fuck! The nubile blonde woman with the pert breasts
who immediately follows this nightmarish scene begins babbling about some
$9.00 a month solution. What the fuck?? (Nice tits.) What the fuck!! My
alcohol (over) enhanced sense of moral outrage leads to... (really nice tits) immediate
action... Defense! A murmur from my son upstairs reminds me that my moral outrage should
be limited to the silent variety.
What
to do? Carpet bomb Norway? Petition the UN to take Bjork or some other high
value lefse munching, lutefisk slurping, seal pup smashing target hostage?
Embargo the Finns from exporting unpronounceable names? There had to be more
that I could do, in addition to sending $9.00 a month to a nubile blonde woman
with remarkably outstanding cleavage. These poor, white, fluffy, uncoordinated
creatures were bereft of a means of defense. My alcohol lubricated neurons
fired into a brilliant Bacardi 151 blue flame... Fangs! That was it, fucking
fangs. Nothing could menace a club toting, seal pup mauling, longboat rowing Norseman like a
pair of seven-inch, razor sharp canines... with micro-serration.
Like
any good seal fang fabrication technician, of which I am the only one, I needed a
design. I was properly motivated and adequately inspired as I beamed down at
the prototype sketched in purple crayon on a torn Pampers box a scant four minutes
later. It was crude, but workable, but mostly crude, very nearly incomprehensible, but workable.
By
my fifth revision on the vodka raspberry lemonade the same drawing looked fucking
awesome! I was a goddamn seal pup dental Di Vinci. May I point out that I am the only one of those too. It was time
to move from the Renaissance into the Age of Technology with the wonders of
Adobe Photoshop 5.0. Just a few clicks of the mouse later, conservatively
numbered in thousands , my masterpiece was complete. I was satisfied that
I had done something positive for Mother Nature and scored points with Miss
Cleavage 1999, the fit-titted PETA spokes-chicky all before 8:00 AM.
I
settled into a well deserved C2H6O
meditative state. As I watched Speedracer go, go Speedracer go, I heard the
pitter-patter, skid, and pitter-patter of footie panamas approaching . In the
doorway appeared a sleepy eyed boy of five... OK, five and a half. His bossy
baby sister of three peeked around his shoulder. Robert was content to nestle
himself into my lap with over emphasized crash sound that he loved to make and
stared out the window. Sierra was having none of that, and apparently none of
this, or anything else either. I tried to coax her into my available side.
Nope.
"What
baby girl?” I desperately searched her scowling face for some clue.
Silence
surrounded her increasingly stern look of dissatisfaction. Remembering that she
was a "show me girl" rather than a "tell me girl" in the morning, I moved Robert aside,
stood, and took her hand. She lead me a few steps and then in a surprising
burst of speed circled back and sat directly on Robert’s head. Robert
protested and struggled to get his petulant sister off of him. This kind of
antic was how Sierra typically started her day. The minor melee ended in a
victorious big brother dealing out a harsh walking away to the toy box. Sierra
defeated, claimed my goose down feather-filled command nest and evicted her
brother simultaneously.
Robert
pulled out trucks and cars from the toy box and began vvvvroooming them around
the living room carpet. I retired to my desktop computer and ink jetted fanged
seal creation into 8½” x 11” life. After cutting eye slots and a bit of girding
with tape and string, I donned the fanged seal helm over my face. Perfect. I
felt much safer and far more attractive. I sat at my desk waiting for the kids
to notice. Minutes passed.
Long,
slowing minutes passed.
Creeping, agonizing
minutes dragged by me like crippled slugs.
Any
minute now, at least one of the kids would look up and see me.
Any minute.
Any
fricken ’ minute.
Fine....
I cleared my throat.
Nothing.
I
tapped the desk.
Nothing.
I
slammed a drawer. Sierra
started crying, then collapsed face forward into her goose down feather-filled
princess flower something. Robert ran to her and
soothingly said, "See-air-wah , don't cry. It's A-Kay. It's A-kay ." I stood up and came
to her aid, as well. Robert and I calmed and cooed Sierra, who
continued to sob miserably into the pile of goose down feather-filled flying flower whatever. Try
as I might, Robert would not look my way. He focused on the blubbering baby
sister and I was too, kind of. Then, Robert caught a glimpse of my fanged masterpiece's awesomeness and was instantly terrified by the menacing sight. Robert reflexively trembled in hysterical laughter. He laughed, I laughed, and Sierra sobbed
less intently. Finally, she couldn't resist looking any longer. She was
transfixed in dread and roared her approval, "Rrrrrarrr!" The sound she imagined anything with fangs would make. The living room exploded in fear
driven, pull-ups wetting, raucous laughter.
Laughter, that ended quickly when the deafening snarls of the angry
mommy dragon echoed through the room, ”What the hell... (mumble , mumble)...
knock it off... (more irate, indecipherable syllables)... Where’s the Goddamn
blanket?"
This was the real test... Fanged Baby Seal vs. Angry Mommy Dragon.
The kids fell silent and looked anxiously up the stairs where the profanity spewing dragon would emerge from her lair. I crept silently into a good ambush position
behind the wall. As the Dragon sleepily, but menacingly, shuffled into the
living room, I pounced. The flash of seven-inch micro-serrated baby seal fangs
ripped through the suspense filled air with a defiant "Grrrrr!" The
sound that I imagined anything with fangs would make. At once, the Angry Mommy
Dragon was startled into annoyance and mortally unimpressed. Given the
opportunity, she would have surely sat directly on my head. Like mother, like
daughter.
Alas,
my first milestone in defensive seal physiology technology had ended in an
abject failure, a glorious but abject failure. If fangs could only entertain
small children and annoy an angry young mommy dragon, what chance could it stand against a
Marmot wearing, snowshoe treading, seal clubbing Viking son of a bitch?
Back to the drinking drawing board.
Russian in the Woods (The North Bend Rap)
From all the woods around the foot of the mountain My rhymes flow down Snoqualmie like a fountain
Sunday, September 6, 2015
HTB Chronicills - The Golden Lamp
One day
Harold was stumbling down by the river when he came across a golden lamp. He
thought it could be recycled for a fair price or traded for a small bag. He
preferred the former, but would be content with the latter. He polished his new
encrusted treasure with a dollop of spit and a few buffs of his grease, mud,
and sweat stained shirt which had been a six week veteran of his wardrobe.
With a
deafening roar and gust of wind that nearly blew him over a genie popped out of
the lamp and hovered ominously within a cloud of thick, dark smoke over
Harold's head. Before the genie could fully materialize, Harold had already
pulled his trusty tooter from his pocket and began inhaling the cloud deeply
into his lungs.
"You
have released me from 1,000 years of imprisonment within the lamp. I am
obligated to grant you three wishes before my freedom is complete.” the genie's
voice boomed.
Harold
continued to inhale the tar colored smoke with long satisfying puffs.
After a few
minutes, or maybe hours... who knows, the genie became impatient with the delay
and exhorted, “Come on, dude, gimme' your three wishes!”
Pleasantly
inebriated by this point, Harold gazed up at the floating figure and slurred,
"I'd like another hit, if that's alright with you?”
The genie
acquiesced to his temporary master’s wish, taking one off the tally, he asked,
"What will you have for your other two wishes?”
Harold was
now off in a world of his own where fictional things like genies, jinn, and
Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes winners were real. The only oddity, aside
from all the rest, was that they were all used as breakfast cereals (Don't ask,
you have to be really high to understand).
Harold faded,
and for a moment imagined he was someone else. He wasn't a bum at all, but a
respected member of the community. A doctor or lawyer, or a lawyer for doctors!
Yeah, that's what he was. He would answer the phone two or three times a week
and say some words in Latin and have his secretary bill the doctors $10,000 per
word. He also had a beautiful wife who looked like Christina Applegate, when
she was really hot. She would walk around the house in lingerie all day and
satisfy his most outrageous sexual demands instantly. His children, a boy and a
girl, were honor students who exchanged emails with that super genius guy in
the wheelchair, just to correct his formulas and stuff. He had his own genie
who…
"Please,
master, what will you have for your other two wishes?" The words from the
genie's booming baritone voice shocked Harold back to his half-hallucinatory
reality.
Harold
hadn’t been the best at planning for the future. It was never a required job
skill in the bum industry. He wasn’t much good at remembering the past either.
Being a bum is a lot like living in a series of self-induced lobotomies,
everything happened in a constant now without regard for things
four minutes in either direction on the timeline.
His toes
grew like little furry tentacles into the warm water as the Winnebagos did back
flips, breaching the surface of the sloggy mist. They moaned the most beautiful
song Harold had the pleasure of hearing an aquatic recreational vehicle perform.
It was…
"What
shall be your second wish master?" the genie interrupted the camper
crooning much to Harold's dismay.
"I wish
you would shut the fuck up!" Harold snarled trying to refocus on the
Winnebagos once more. But the genie tapped his shoulder and pointed down at the
words scrawled in the sand, which read, "Your final wish?"
"Fucking leave me alone!" Harold shouted as he turned back to the Winnebago serenade without noticing the flash of light into which the genie disappeared. Harold fell into a deep sleep, he was as comfortable as a Mongolian horseman wrapped in the blubbery embrace of a walrus' flippers. Yes, a walrus’ flippers, until he was jarred from his Odobenus rosmarus cocoon by that intolerable shrieking, "Harold!"
It was
Warren, fucking Warren, every syllable from Warren's face hole sounded like a
cat being raped with a garden weasel. Yes, a garden weasel, until the
creature howled once more,
"Harold!
I need you to... blah blah blah!" like the violated feline he is.
It was
always "blah blah blah" with Warren. How Harold hated him
now... but that genie guy was pretty cool and those Winnebagos, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)