In Case You Were Wondering: An ongoing case study of things that shouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow manage to annoy me to no end.
Chapter 1: A trip to the Grocery Store
Every few months I look into the fridge and realize, “Hey! I need some groceries,” and “Mutated broccoli is fun to watch while it beats up blobbified apples, but corralling it, killing it and disposing of it is a real pain in the butt.” If I could figure out how to keep the light in the fridge turned on with the door closed, I could video the flora death matches and make a few bucks.
Off I Go
Every time I pull into the grocery store parking lot, I get ‘The Fear’. Not the same ‘Fear’ I get from my wife, but a ‘Fear’ nonetheless. I swear that as soon as people get into any parking lot, the side blinders they use to drive down the freeway become #10 welding shades.
This is no ordinary circus. This is a multi-generational extravaganza. The cast of characters in this ballet of bad driving ranges from new licensees, to very old and possibly dead people. I think ‘zombified’ is the correct faux word.
Categorized Inflictors of ‘The Fear’
1) Small ladies driving large SUV’s, full size pick up trucks, and even motor homes. I wince every time I see these people bumping and pushing their monster trucks into parking spaces designed for a Toyota Yaris. Newsflash: If you need a rope ladder to climb into your vehicle, and the seat raised a foot from the floor just so you can see between the dash and the steering wheel – your vehicle is too big for you. Those ‘thingies’ you hit and call speed bumps may actually be people you have run over. You wouldn’t know though because all you can see on your rear view mirror is your backseat or the roof of your vehicle. Newsflash: If you can’t reach the rear view mirror of your vehicle without standing on the seat – your vehicle is too large for you and your little T-Rex arms.
2) Young or new drivers. A little tidbit of knowledge for you: The yellow painted areas on the pavement where people walk across from the store to the parking lot – that is called a ‘cross walk’. It is pretty standard practice to stop at a cross walk when people are crossing at one. Honking your horn, driving through the painted area and flipping people off are not standard operating procedures.
3) Elderly drivers. Driving down the center of the parking aisles while being passed by people pushing shopping carts should be indication enough that you are moving far too slow and annoying other people. And please explain the random stopping and reversing manoeuvre? I have witnessed an elderly woman attempt to park inside a shopping cart coral. She must have thought the covered parking was reserved for her. After several failed attempts, she drove to another parking spot. This being Windsor, I can imagine that small foreign cars were to blame for her inability to wedge her Buick into the cart coral.
4) Other. I become scared whenever I hear the sound of metal and concrete grinding together in a symphony of stupidity. We have all seen or heard this at some point. I refer to this method of parking as ‘Driving by Feel’ or ‘Parking by Sound’. All I can say about these types of drivers is that Darwin was really Wrong.
I am Just Getting Started.
After dodging vehicles in the parking lot, I find myself watching in awe and amazement as some of the brighter people in the store attempt to separate the shopping carts right inside the door of the store. Furiously pulling and jerking at the carts trying to free one of these decrepit left-turning carts from the sea of scrap that has accumulated in the cart area. At the proper (or improper) angle, sometimes the people appear like monkeys in a tree: masturbating furiously, as if their life depended on the outcome. I slowly wade through the mass of retardation, people who can’t separate a cart, people who can’t decide if they want a big cart or a small cart, and other people who just seem to think that at any moment something wonderful will happen to them if they just stand, in the way, of people trying to get their grocery shopping done.
If I have the luck to find a cart that has not been welded to another one, I always enjoy hearing other guys (the monkey guys) try to explain why they cannot free a cart. It is the same excuse that I use when someone asks me to work on their car:” I used to work on the engine of my car, but all these ‘things’ and computers just baffle me now!” or “I used to know how to separate shopping carts, but these new ones must have bigger wheels or something, and you must have to lift them a different way!” Yeah. Okay, dumbass!
Through the Door
Why, why, why do people feel the need to block doors and talk to people about stupid crap? Don’t pretend you don’t know what you are doing! You see us waiting, being patient because you are being a douchebag. And pull up your fat ass kid’s stupid-looking pants!
Three things you can do when you find yourself in this predicament:
Be Canadian and wait patiently.
Kindly ask Douchebag and Fat Family to move their cart.
Be me and just push your way through. No warning. No Regrets. Be sure to tell them ‘Suck my Ass!’ when they bitterly squeal ‘Excuse Me!’ Then call them a Douchebag.
I Know What I Want
Being a guy, I can honestly say that if it involves having to shop, I won’t go unless I know what I need. Shopping is not a sport or activity. If it was, there would be helmets, sticks and a mouth guard involved. Full contact jewellery shopping – Yeah! Bowling for fat people in the aisles – Alright! I go the grocery store because I need food and I know what I want. Get in, get out. Like a cat burglar. But Nooooo! I get stuck behind some 90-year-old Armenian woman who has to pinch, squeeze and fondle every strawberry or string bean. Come on, live a little. Grab the entire quart basket and jam it into you cart.
Welcome to the Deli Counter. We are now serving Number Stupid!
What is so hard about taking a number when you walk up to the deli counter and then waiting until your number is called? I have seen women (I think they were women) actually cry at the deli counter. “I have been waiting longer than that man and you served him first!” Did you take a number? Did you see the little red light clock/counter thing? Did you see anyone else take a number? You don’t deserve deli. You are too stupid to live, let alone enjoy any type of deli. Oh, let me guess: you want fresh bologna? Get out of the store, retard.
Oh the Hopelessness!
Is it inherently difficult to keep your cart on one side or the other of the aisle? Don’t look at me like I’m some rampaging lunatic when I push your cart out of my way. I don’t even say ‘Excuse me’ anymore. There is no point. I will just have to say it again in the next aisle because Navigator-Driving Nancy will not and cannot learn to keep her cart out of the way of others.
Again with people blocking the aisles talking about things that make me want to vomit. Get out of the way! You are ignorant and stupid and I can’t believe you were smart enough to find the grocery store, let alone wander around it unsupervised.
A Horizontal Side Note
I have noticed that ‘large’ people usually never hang around the produce section of the store. Bread, boxed meals and frozen foods – that is where you see the highest concentration of large people and their Amigo Lard Ass Transporters (ALAT for short). I am pretty sure that they purchase things based on the length of time it will take to cook them. Toast is quick. Does it take longer to put Macaroni and Cheese in the microwave or boil water? It is faster in the microwave, but I have to stand up out of my ALAT. For the love of all that is holy, please put all the high starch, fatty, salty pre-made stuff on the higher shelves. The savings in medical costs keeping this stuff out of reach of ALAT people alone would buy books for a few dozen schools every year.
Cell phones? Really? You came here with no list and no clue? Thank you for talking loud enough for everyone to hear you, also. If I have to hear you say ‘snoogums’ or ‘pookie bear’ one more time, I will shove that phone up your ass. That shouldn’t be a problem for you though since it is obvious that your head is nestled up there anyway.
The Finish Line
Does anyone find it disturbing that we are willing to stand in line for a very long time and pay exorbitant sums of our money to do it? It’s much like going to Cedar Point. It costs a lot, you have trip over strollers and stupid people everywhere, but there are no rides (except for the conveyor at the check out – it is actually a lot of fun to ride, but they don’t stand up too well to the weight of someone my size. It was kind of embarrassing waiting for the fire department to arrive and free my coat zipper from the internal workings also).
If one more smiley eighteen-year-old tries to lead me over to the self checkout and starts explaining how this futuristic nonsense works, I swear to something sacred I am going to blow a gasket. ‘Let me help you, Sir!’ It felt like she was leading an old dog into the unknown. Unhand me, you little trollop! I understand your strange machine. I only followed you because I thought it was Lap Dance Day.
Paper or Plastic ?
Has anyone ever said ‘neither?’ I would like something in satin with ruffles if you don’t mind. Put the groceries in a bag, you twit, and never ask me that question again.
I absolutely refuse to bag my own groceries at the checkout. I want the chestily endowed lady to bend over as many times as possible, so me helping limit her bending just isn’t an option.
Run For Your Car
Do I have a target painted on my back? Really, how come I would feel safer tap dancing through a mine field than pushing a cart back to my car? Rear view mirrors don’t lie and if you are physically incapable of rotating your neck fifteen or twenty degrees, then please don’t think doing 6000 rpm neutral drops into reverse is the proper method of exiting a parking spot. And don’t roll down your window and scream at me while I am laying in the fetal position underneath your car hoping all three testicles are still where they are supposed to be.
To Safety
Groceries are loaded, and I have not maimed anyone backing out of my parking spot. Be a dear and get your fat ass and mentally challenged looking kids out of the way. Holy Hell, it’s the same fat ass who kept blocking me in the aisles inside. It must be their mission in life to slow people down. People can’t be that dumb…or can they? Traffic is trying to move, but you just slowly lumber and jiggle your behemoth behind down the center of the parking aisle.
Where is my tack hammer?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Back in the Day
Back In the Day
It has come to my attention that the two, possibly three people who read this blog and the crap contained herein and possibly on heroine, who may have interesting things to write about but either don’t:
1) want to write
2) have time to write
3) know how to write – at all!
I want to start a blog where anyone can write in with a quip or query. I have know idea how to do this so don’t get all uppity on me or I will have to get all whacky on your badonkadunk!
The first kick at the can will involve stories from my/our past. Hence the name, ‘Back in the Day.’ Please put on your tinfoil helmets and hit us with a quirky blast from the past. It can have something to do with a blind date where either you or the blind date had horrible gas (and since your date was blind he/she could not see you pointing at the old guy on the other side of the theatre aisle). Maybe it was one of those cutesy things that little kids can only get away with saying. Regret is great thing to, in hindsight, joke about.
Instalment Number 1 – January 7th 2009
There are very few things I regret, as long as alcohol isn’t involved. One of the things I regret is not standing up to a bully when I was in the 4th grade. Let’s call this bully – Dave. Dave was a friend of mine for half of my school life (since grade 2). One day Dave and I were no longer friends. At lunch recess Dave beat the holy hell out of me while everyone drank there Allen’s apple juice and waved there Star Wars lunch pails like Marching flags. At afternoon recess Dave decided he had not finished the job and decided to go for round two. In a spinning vortex of dust and spastically thrown punches I ended up getting Dave in the Mother of all headlocks. If I could hold on for fifteen more minutes I would only have to outrun Dave to the doors and back into class. Unfortunately this was not to be. Dave was a lot bigger than I was and could easily lift me up and fall on me, several times.
I ended up with swollen eyes, a bloody nose, some blood from one of my ears and a ringing sound that lasted for a couple of hours. My teacher sent me to the bathroom to clean up and then to the principal’s office to rat out the other person. I never did rat Dave out. Not out of pride. Simply out of fear. Jungle Gym Justice.
When I got home my mom sent me to my room and demanded that I tell her who I had gotten into a fight with. I knew the school had called her and informed me that I would be dining with the rest of the ‘tards in detention until I fessed up, came clean, joined the system and played ball. I didn’t talk. Even at that age I knew I would be standing before the Man in roughly two hours.
If you have ever been in the same situation you know that the waiting is the worst punishment. Every minute ticked by agonizingly slowly. What would happen? Maybe I should write my will and leave my hockey cards and clean underwear to my brothers. Who would witness my will and would it be legal? Oh God why have you done this to me? I haven’t seen Athens yet and I am only halfway through the latest Hardy Boys book.
I heard the dog bark and the door swing open. My heart raced and I knew I was going to be killed within minutes. I heard a shrill voice instructing my father to deal with his youngest son. I swore I heard her say she wasn’t too old to have another child and she never liked me anyway. Boom boom boom. My heart was jumping through my mouth as my dad trudged up the stairs. I don’t remember the door opening. I just remember levitating down to the basement and standing in front of dad’s office desk. I do remember his door closing and me thinking that I had had a good run. Nine years wasn’t too bad. Dad’s heavy breathing and squeaky chair brought me back to reality.
Knowing that flames and death rays were going to shoot out from his face I braced myself and made peace with the gods.
‘Your mother is very upset with you right now!’ he said calmly. I opened my eyes and I wasn’t being destroyed by death rays OR fire. ‘She wants you to tell the principal who beat you up.’ I tried to clarify that I had been in a fight and not just ‘beaten up’. His voice went a little deeper and he said, ‘by the looks of you, I figured you got jumped. But if you say it was a fight you were in then it was a fight.’ ‘Did you at least win the fight?’ he asked me solemnly. For reasons still not known I broke down. Gasping for air and an answer I said “No. I didn’t win either fight.’ His chair tilted forward and I was told to stop crying. He leaned back in his chair and began to talk. ‘I understand why you won’t tell us who you got into a fight with. I wouldn’t tell either if I was you. I will inform the principal that you won’t tell and I think you only deserve a few days detention. I do suggest that you take care of things yourself or whoever you have been fighting with will keep coming after you. Go upstairs and eat dinner.’
I walked upstairs and sat at the dinner table. Dad walked in about three steps behind me. Mom started in on me and was quickly told to let it go by dad.
I spent three lunch hours in the hooskow with the bad elements of D.M Eagle Public School. Nose-pickers. Biters. Ankle kickers. Nut kickers. Biting nut kickers! Three days of retards and bullies. That will teach me a lesson.
The next few months were spent looking behind me. Pushes into lockers, punches through crowds the same sort of behaviour dad had warned me about. It got really bad when Dave’s cronies began taking shots at me. Funny thing about guys who want to be tough – they never think about tomorrow.
We all used to play hockey together on Saturday mornings. Dave was a puck hog and wasn’t a very good skater. His cronies weren’t blessed with the ability to skate very well either. Now was my time to shine. I didn’t take Dave out; I worked on his cronies and slowly showed them that I could pick them apart. After a few weeks of hockey the cronies left me alone and Dave’s attacks dissipated. I still remember waiting for the next attack that never came.
Years went by and we all hung out with new friends and did different things.
I got shipped off to a Catholic high school for grade 9 and 10. I hated the place but I made some friends. I don’t remember what year it was but Dave showed up at the same high school. He was dressed up like a punk rocker. He was possibly only an inch or two taller than me now and he had the physique of a fat ass baseball player, minus any biceps.
Dave still had a big mouth and I watched several times as he got his ass kicked by multiple city kids. I remember he looked at me once while he was getting his ass whooped. He wanted my help, like we were still old buddies. I wouldn’t help him. I was mad that every time there was a fight it ended up being a brawl. I so badly wanted to kick his ass that I refused to help him, gain his trust, and kick his ass when he was vulnerable.
A few weeks after his arrival, Dave was gone. Transferred to another high school.
Thirty years later I still dream of the day I see Dave again. There he is in the grocery store minding his own business. KRACCK! I kick his mop out from under him. BANG! The sound of his head bouncing off his wheeled mop bucket as I shame him with his mop and mop like cleaning accessories. ‘Remember me douche bag!’ I scream as I chase him around the produce section with his dust pan.
I don’t know what became of Dave and frankly I don’t care. I can thank him for helping teach me to stick up for myself. I can probably despise him for turning me into a bully when I was physically capable of it. The only thing I do know is I wish I had stood up to Dave. Actually gone after him until he was tired of getting into fights with me. I wish I had tagged him every opportunity I had to let him know that I wasn’t afraid of him and I was/am stupid enough to keep coming after him. Bullies aren’t bad. Bullies are bullies. I think they actually do some good. Given the chance they can teach the rest of us to stand up for ourselves-which in itself is pure pride.
That is the first ‘Back in the Day’ quip. If you have a story to tell please send it to me. I will post it without your name if you like.
It has come to my attention that the two, possibly three people who read this blog and the crap contained herein and possibly on heroine, who may have interesting things to write about but either don’t:
1) want to write
2) have time to write
3) know how to write – at all!
I want to start a blog where anyone can write in with a quip or query. I have know idea how to do this so don’t get all uppity on me or I will have to get all whacky on your badonkadunk!
The first kick at the can will involve stories from my/our past. Hence the name, ‘Back in the Day.’ Please put on your tinfoil helmets and hit us with a quirky blast from the past. It can have something to do with a blind date where either you or the blind date had horrible gas (and since your date was blind he/she could not see you pointing at the old guy on the other side of the theatre aisle). Maybe it was one of those cutesy things that little kids can only get away with saying. Regret is great thing to, in hindsight, joke about.
Instalment Number 1 – January 7th 2009
There are very few things I regret, as long as alcohol isn’t involved. One of the things I regret is not standing up to a bully when I was in the 4th grade. Let’s call this bully – Dave. Dave was a friend of mine for half of my school life (since grade 2). One day Dave and I were no longer friends. At lunch recess Dave beat the holy hell out of me while everyone drank there Allen’s apple juice and waved there Star Wars lunch pails like Marching flags. At afternoon recess Dave decided he had not finished the job and decided to go for round two. In a spinning vortex of dust and spastically thrown punches I ended up getting Dave in the Mother of all headlocks. If I could hold on for fifteen more minutes I would only have to outrun Dave to the doors and back into class. Unfortunately this was not to be. Dave was a lot bigger than I was and could easily lift me up and fall on me, several times.
I ended up with swollen eyes, a bloody nose, some blood from one of my ears and a ringing sound that lasted for a couple of hours. My teacher sent me to the bathroom to clean up and then to the principal’s office to rat out the other person. I never did rat Dave out. Not out of pride. Simply out of fear. Jungle Gym Justice.
When I got home my mom sent me to my room and demanded that I tell her who I had gotten into a fight with. I knew the school had called her and informed me that I would be dining with the rest of the ‘tards in detention until I fessed up, came clean, joined the system and played ball. I didn’t talk. Even at that age I knew I would be standing before the Man in roughly two hours.
If you have ever been in the same situation you know that the waiting is the worst punishment. Every minute ticked by agonizingly slowly. What would happen? Maybe I should write my will and leave my hockey cards and clean underwear to my brothers. Who would witness my will and would it be legal? Oh God why have you done this to me? I haven’t seen Athens yet and I am only halfway through the latest Hardy Boys book.
I heard the dog bark and the door swing open. My heart raced and I knew I was going to be killed within minutes. I heard a shrill voice instructing my father to deal with his youngest son. I swore I heard her say she wasn’t too old to have another child and she never liked me anyway. Boom boom boom. My heart was jumping through my mouth as my dad trudged up the stairs. I don’t remember the door opening. I just remember levitating down to the basement and standing in front of dad’s office desk. I do remember his door closing and me thinking that I had had a good run. Nine years wasn’t too bad. Dad’s heavy breathing and squeaky chair brought me back to reality.
Knowing that flames and death rays were going to shoot out from his face I braced myself and made peace with the gods.
‘Your mother is very upset with you right now!’ he said calmly. I opened my eyes and I wasn’t being destroyed by death rays OR fire. ‘She wants you to tell the principal who beat you up.’ I tried to clarify that I had been in a fight and not just ‘beaten up’. His voice went a little deeper and he said, ‘by the looks of you, I figured you got jumped. But if you say it was a fight you were in then it was a fight.’ ‘Did you at least win the fight?’ he asked me solemnly. For reasons still not known I broke down. Gasping for air and an answer I said “No. I didn’t win either fight.’ His chair tilted forward and I was told to stop crying. He leaned back in his chair and began to talk. ‘I understand why you won’t tell us who you got into a fight with. I wouldn’t tell either if I was you. I will inform the principal that you won’t tell and I think you only deserve a few days detention. I do suggest that you take care of things yourself or whoever you have been fighting with will keep coming after you. Go upstairs and eat dinner.’
I walked upstairs and sat at the dinner table. Dad walked in about three steps behind me. Mom started in on me and was quickly told to let it go by dad.
I spent three lunch hours in the hooskow with the bad elements of D.M Eagle Public School. Nose-pickers. Biters. Ankle kickers. Nut kickers. Biting nut kickers! Three days of retards and bullies. That will teach me a lesson.
The next few months were spent looking behind me. Pushes into lockers, punches through crowds the same sort of behaviour dad had warned me about. It got really bad when Dave’s cronies began taking shots at me. Funny thing about guys who want to be tough – they never think about tomorrow.
We all used to play hockey together on Saturday mornings. Dave was a puck hog and wasn’t a very good skater. His cronies weren’t blessed with the ability to skate very well either. Now was my time to shine. I didn’t take Dave out; I worked on his cronies and slowly showed them that I could pick them apart. After a few weeks of hockey the cronies left me alone and Dave’s attacks dissipated. I still remember waiting for the next attack that never came.
Years went by and we all hung out with new friends and did different things.
I got shipped off to a Catholic high school for grade 9 and 10. I hated the place but I made some friends. I don’t remember what year it was but Dave showed up at the same high school. He was dressed up like a punk rocker. He was possibly only an inch or two taller than me now and he had the physique of a fat ass baseball player, minus any biceps.
Dave still had a big mouth and I watched several times as he got his ass kicked by multiple city kids. I remember he looked at me once while he was getting his ass whooped. He wanted my help, like we were still old buddies. I wouldn’t help him. I was mad that every time there was a fight it ended up being a brawl. I so badly wanted to kick his ass that I refused to help him, gain his trust, and kick his ass when he was vulnerable.
A few weeks after his arrival, Dave was gone. Transferred to another high school.
Thirty years later I still dream of the day I see Dave again. There he is in the grocery store minding his own business. KRACCK! I kick his mop out from under him. BANG! The sound of his head bouncing off his wheeled mop bucket as I shame him with his mop and mop like cleaning accessories. ‘Remember me douche bag!’ I scream as I chase him around the produce section with his dust pan.
I don’t know what became of Dave and frankly I don’t care. I can thank him for helping teach me to stick up for myself. I can probably despise him for turning me into a bully when I was physically capable of it. The only thing I do know is I wish I had stood up to Dave. Actually gone after him until he was tired of getting into fights with me. I wish I had tagged him every opportunity I had to let him know that I wasn’t afraid of him and I was/am stupid enough to keep coming after him. Bullies aren’t bad. Bullies are bullies. I think they actually do some good. Given the chance they can teach the rest of us to stand up for ourselves-which in itself is pure pride.
That is the first ‘Back in the Day’ quip. If you have a story to tell please send it to me. I will post it without your name if you like.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
A Shiny New Year
Every year for quite some time I have tried to figure out what resolution I want to make for the New Year. Things usually end up the same every year. The eleventh hour begins to wane and I still haven’t decided what ‘thing’ I will fail at this year. Finally as the clock ticks down to midnight I get all flustered and decide reversing global warming is just too much work and decide that I will, again, decide to quit smoking.
OF course this resolution is broken at 12:01 am as I and the rest of the social pariahs huddle outside in the blowing snow using our lighters as a campfire to help stave off the cold (Note – women or metrosexuals wearing any type of fur or faux fur should not partake in warming themselves by the Zippo fire as, unbeknownst to some of us, fur burns-fast-and smells very very bad when it does).
New Years Eve is Christmas for adults. We get to wish for things we want and we get to shake off remnants, doubts and failures from the current year as it draws to a close.
What a great opportunity to mend fences on friendships that need to be repaired. The biggest problem we as a ‘civilized’ group need to contend with is that none or very few of us ever want to admit we were wrong or maybe we said something at a weak moment or we made a decision that was uninformed and hasty. This is the time of year when anyone can walk up to a former friend and say, ‘I’m sorry I kept ogling your wife’s cleavage and told all the guys I would kill you for the chance to play motorboat with her breasts.’ How difficult is it? If you get popped in the noodle, well maybe, just maybe he was never really your friend (or he has issues to which you are unaware regarding breasts, apologies or motorboating). In any case you have taken the high road, admitted you were in the wrong for what you said and have closure.
High hopes and wonderful expectations seem to emanate from most of us at this time of year. Fueled by the Christmas spirit and a longing to fulfill potential we all have but never give a chance to blossom we dare to dream about the possibilities of the quickly approaching new year.
On the one night of the year where we are all allowed to dream you can see people drift off into the ether and wish for a better future. We all usually start of with small wishes. ‘ I wish I could lose 15 pounds.’ Or, ‘I hope my husband gets run over by a bus.’ These are things that are possible with some exercise or a subtle push off the curb. Later on after some social lubricant we hit the Generosity Phase of the evening. This usually lasts for about an hour and by the time it is done every homeless person, orphan and stray cat has been accounted for with our well wishing, open hearts and intoxicated minds.
My personal favourite ‘phase’ is the Babbling Drunk Phase – to which I am very good at. This involves saving the planet, the baby seals, the homeless people and orphans, stray cats AND dogs and somehow acquiring superhero powers. Last year I am pretty sure I took over the province of Quebec, raised free range homeless people, taught dogs how to do calculus and could create vodka from anything by just concentrating really hard (I am the Dean Martin of Super heroes). I woke up with a headache and did not have the opportunity to kick the separatists out of Quebec.
Pipe Bomb Wishes;
1) I wish that on the morning of January 1st, everyone woke up and had common sense. No longer would we have to guess where or when people would be making a turn because their turn signal would let us know. Traffic would be less chaotic because people in the left hand lane would be passing cars in the right hand lane and then moving over to the right hand lane when it was safe to do so. We would know when this was going to happen because they would be using their turn signals. Life would be great because there would no longer be dolts congregating in front of doorways, escalators or hallways talking about whatever mundane things dolts talk about.
2) Accountability. No longer would we have to listen to newscasts about drunks slamming into buses and suing the owner of the bar. We wouldn’t have to have rules about wearing bicycle helmets because some politician’s drunk friend cracked his noggin while riding his three wheeled bike. Lying would be lying and we wouldn’t need a Grand Jury to convene to decipher what a lie really is just to bail out some bush league politician with the moral fiber of Hitler. Aside from putting a lot of lawyers out on the streets I think we would all have a better life if we admitted we were wrong once in a while and move away from frivolous lawsuits blaming other people for all of our misfortunes. If I have my way this year all the lawyers will be allowed to roam free in Quebec with the free range homeless people.
3) Children would all have mute buttons that work with any remote control or better yet, all we would have to say is ‘Stifle’ and pazow – no crying, no incoherent babbling and no back talk.
4) Universal Bullshit Detector on every person on the planet. I would never be able to write anything again but think of all the advantages of hearing – “This words coming out of this person’s mouth are bullshit- anything this person says is suspect and he should be treated with extreme prejudice – Have a nice non bull shitty day” every time some quack, lunatic or fanatical fiend tries to convince of something that isn’t real. This could get annoying if you are watching CNN but it is the price we have to pay to not have our lives disturbed, distorted or disrupted by people who make their living by annoying the crap out of the rest of us.
5) Elimination of the dreaded “STARE” or what I like to call –‘The Stink EYE!’ Every married man knows what this is and fears it more than the possibility of having his testicles yanked off by a herd of rabid mules. The ‘Stare’ does not obey the Laws of Physics. I could be three hundred miles away and I will suddenly get ‘the fear’. My neck will begin to get hot, my heart will beat much faster and my throat will get dry. Women know when something is being said about them- anywhere in the world. My wife has woken me up from a dead sound sleep and told me she knew what I was dreaming about and that if I continue dreaming about it she would be forced to turn the lights on so she could deploy the STARE on me. It’s very hard to get back to sleep when you have ‘the Fear.’
Hunter S. Thompson used to write about ‘the fear.’ The abridged interpretation could be described as – the weasels were closing in and it was near time to pay for the drug induced mayhem he and his cohorts had caused.
‘The fear’ to me consists of wondering why I have broken out in a cold sweat, how long I will be sleeping on the couch and what the hell I did or said. ‘The fear’ is akin to lowering your voice and looking around you before you tell an off colour joke. It’s the tiny voice in the back of your head that says, ‘don’t do it, don’t say it and don’t even think it- think of the consequences man!’ but you still do it anyway. Whenever you get ‘the fear,’ chances are, wherever you are that you will be getting ‘the Stare’ at any moment. Any man who says he is not afraid of the ‘Stare’ is lying or gay. There is no defence from the ‘Stare’ but I heard jewellery can lessen the effects.
As the countdown to the New Year has begun I have still not decided what altruistic endeavour I will fail at miserably this year. There are just so many ways to prove how I excel at mediocrity that making a decision about this potentially life altering resolution has me all kerfuffled. Screw it. I am just going to quit smoking – again.
May 2009 be your greatest year ever and not suck hind teat like 2008.
OF course this resolution is broken at 12:01 am as I and the rest of the social pariahs huddle outside in the blowing snow using our lighters as a campfire to help stave off the cold (Note – women or metrosexuals wearing any type of fur or faux fur should not partake in warming themselves by the Zippo fire as, unbeknownst to some of us, fur burns-fast-and smells very very bad when it does).
New Years Eve is Christmas for adults. We get to wish for things we want and we get to shake off remnants, doubts and failures from the current year as it draws to a close.
What a great opportunity to mend fences on friendships that need to be repaired. The biggest problem we as a ‘civilized’ group need to contend with is that none or very few of us ever want to admit we were wrong or maybe we said something at a weak moment or we made a decision that was uninformed and hasty. This is the time of year when anyone can walk up to a former friend and say, ‘I’m sorry I kept ogling your wife’s cleavage and told all the guys I would kill you for the chance to play motorboat with her breasts.’ How difficult is it? If you get popped in the noodle, well maybe, just maybe he was never really your friend (or he has issues to which you are unaware regarding breasts, apologies or motorboating). In any case you have taken the high road, admitted you were in the wrong for what you said and have closure.
High hopes and wonderful expectations seem to emanate from most of us at this time of year. Fueled by the Christmas spirit and a longing to fulfill potential we all have but never give a chance to blossom we dare to dream about the possibilities of the quickly approaching new year.
On the one night of the year where we are all allowed to dream you can see people drift off into the ether and wish for a better future. We all usually start of with small wishes. ‘ I wish I could lose 15 pounds.’ Or, ‘I hope my husband gets run over by a bus.’ These are things that are possible with some exercise or a subtle push off the curb. Later on after some social lubricant we hit the Generosity Phase of the evening. This usually lasts for about an hour and by the time it is done every homeless person, orphan and stray cat has been accounted for with our well wishing, open hearts and intoxicated minds.
My personal favourite ‘phase’ is the Babbling Drunk Phase – to which I am very good at. This involves saving the planet, the baby seals, the homeless people and orphans, stray cats AND dogs and somehow acquiring superhero powers. Last year I am pretty sure I took over the province of Quebec, raised free range homeless people, taught dogs how to do calculus and could create vodka from anything by just concentrating really hard (I am the Dean Martin of Super heroes). I woke up with a headache and did not have the opportunity to kick the separatists out of Quebec.
Pipe Bomb Wishes;
1) I wish that on the morning of January 1st, everyone woke up and had common sense. No longer would we have to guess where or when people would be making a turn because their turn signal would let us know. Traffic would be less chaotic because people in the left hand lane would be passing cars in the right hand lane and then moving over to the right hand lane when it was safe to do so. We would know when this was going to happen because they would be using their turn signals. Life would be great because there would no longer be dolts congregating in front of doorways, escalators or hallways talking about whatever mundane things dolts talk about.
2) Accountability. No longer would we have to listen to newscasts about drunks slamming into buses and suing the owner of the bar. We wouldn’t have to have rules about wearing bicycle helmets because some politician’s drunk friend cracked his noggin while riding his three wheeled bike. Lying would be lying and we wouldn’t need a Grand Jury to convene to decipher what a lie really is just to bail out some bush league politician with the moral fiber of Hitler. Aside from putting a lot of lawyers out on the streets I think we would all have a better life if we admitted we were wrong once in a while and move away from frivolous lawsuits blaming other people for all of our misfortunes. If I have my way this year all the lawyers will be allowed to roam free in Quebec with the free range homeless people.
3) Children would all have mute buttons that work with any remote control or better yet, all we would have to say is ‘Stifle’ and pazow – no crying, no incoherent babbling and no back talk.
4) Universal Bullshit Detector on every person on the planet. I would never be able to write anything again but think of all the advantages of hearing – “This words coming out of this person’s mouth are bullshit- anything this person says is suspect and he should be treated with extreme prejudice – Have a nice non bull shitty day” every time some quack, lunatic or fanatical fiend tries to convince of something that isn’t real. This could get annoying if you are watching CNN but it is the price we have to pay to not have our lives disturbed, distorted or disrupted by people who make their living by annoying the crap out of the rest of us.
5) Elimination of the dreaded “STARE” or what I like to call –‘The Stink EYE!’ Every married man knows what this is and fears it more than the possibility of having his testicles yanked off by a herd of rabid mules. The ‘Stare’ does not obey the Laws of Physics. I could be three hundred miles away and I will suddenly get ‘the fear’. My neck will begin to get hot, my heart will beat much faster and my throat will get dry. Women know when something is being said about them- anywhere in the world. My wife has woken me up from a dead sound sleep and told me she knew what I was dreaming about and that if I continue dreaming about it she would be forced to turn the lights on so she could deploy the STARE on me. It’s very hard to get back to sleep when you have ‘the Fear.’
Hunter S. Thompson used to write about ‘the fear.’ The abridged interpretation could be described as – the weasels were closing in and it was near time to pay for the drug induced mayhem he and his cohorts had caused.
‘The fear’ to me consists of wondering why I have broken out in a cold sweat, how long I will be sleeping on the couch and what the hell I did or said. ‘The fear’ is akin to lowering your voice and looking around you before you tell an off colour joke. It’s the tiny voice in the back of your head that says, ‘don’t do it, don’t say it and don’t even think it- think of the consequences man!’ but you still do it anyway. Whenever you get ‘the fear,’ chances are, wherever you are that you will be getting ‘the Stare’ at any moment. Any man who says he is not afraid of the ‘Stare’ is lying or gay. There is no defence from the ‘Stare’ but I heard jewellery can lessen the effects.
As the countdown to the New Year has begun I have still not decided what altruistic endeavour I will fail at miserably this year. There are just so many ways to prove how I excel at mediocrity that making a decision about this potentially life altering resolution has me all kerfuffled. Screw it. I am just going to quit smoking – again.
May 2009 be your greatest year ever and not suck hind teat like 2008.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The Big Day
I have come to the conclusion that Christmas time used to be a lot of fun. I still enjoy Christmas, but now it is simply because I get a few days to sleep for 14-hour stretches and not feel guilty about it.
I have been running it over in my head and, every time I do, the historical steady decline in fun always comes out in phases.
I attach the following for your information and amusement.
1)What the Hell is going on?
Through the use of archive photographs and the recollections of relatives who used to be drunks but are now just mildly senile, I was able to construct what Christmas may have been like when I was 2- or 3 years old.
The Mall
Who is this fat SOB with the white beard? How dare you pick me up and jostle me around like I was a $2 whore. I have just peed on your leg, and I think I just soiled myself, to boot.
Christmas Morning
Dragged from the comfort and security of my bed and favourite blanket, at 5:30am, I am dragged downstairs by my brothers in what could only be described as a picture perfect Italian Army Retreat: Asses and Elbows.
To my amazement, someone has left boxes and pretty paper around a tree. I thoroughly enjoyed making a fort out of boxes and eating the colourful paper.
The remainder of the day is spent fighting over toys and, being poked and prodded by old people. and I still don’t know who the fat man in the red suit is.
2)I think the Fat Man is OK!
Between the ages of 4 and 6 years old, I remember Christmas. Not vividly, but enough to know that this Fat Man was is alright in my book. I was still a little leaery of him, as you one could tell if you they saw the picture of me and the Fat Man. The look of ‘I really like you, but keep your distance’ danced from my eyes, with tinges of fear and loathing jumbled in for effect.
This age seems to coincide with raised voices and getting into trouble for launching Nerf products at grandma while she worked on her 6th rum and coke of the morning. Back in the early Seventies, little was understood about the a correlation between sugar intake and hyper activity. We weren’t over stimulated, we were ‘acting crazy’ and the candy canes and chocolate and sweets were not the culprits.
3)What Do You Mean?
My bubble was burst when I was 6 years old. My older brothers knew, but tried to shield me from the truth. However there is always that one kid in the neighbourhood who has to share the pain with everybody once he discovers that the Jolly Old Saint Nick likely isn’t real.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to pretend that you believe in Santa Clause when you are 6 years old. You have been lied to by the very people who tell you not to lie, and the one guy, the most known person on the planet turns out to be a myth. The one thing we could all stand together to and believe in is taken away. That ‘kid’ I mentioned earlier almost always has red hair and bad teeth. This is the reason I dislike bad -toothed red -headed people to this day.
4)Thanks for the Socks!
Christmas turns into a day to receive socks you’ll never wear, books you won’t read, and visits to relatives you’ve never liked. All I ever wanted to do during Christmas during the time span of 12-19 years old was be with my friends.
Being with my friends was what made Christmas fun. Shooting out Christmas lights with a pellet gun was what Christmas meant to me. It was the time of the bastard!
5)First Girlfriend Gift
Around the that same time, most of us gave a really bad gift to the girl we were dating at the time. I don’t remember the piece of crap gift I gave, but at the time, it was the ‘most coolest’ gift ever. Mine was likely some perfume that could be used to anesthetise farm animals. For all I know it could have been hockey cards. To this day, I still give crappy gifts. I gave my wife a softball and kitchen tongs last years. Luckily, I had my shoes on at the time, and was able to make a hasty retreat. because I could hear her as I fled that I would need the tongs to remove the softball from a certain bodily orifice, and something about me being really stupid.
6)The Party Years
Nineteen years old, and up until marriage we had some damn good parties. Friends and a lot of booze were what Christmas meant to me. These were also the years that my parents would wake me up at 6am on Christmas morning -after letting me sleep for about half an hour - to revel in the Christmas spirit with family and friends. Even a hot shower and after -shave overdose couldn’t mask the odour of beer, rye and cigarettes oozing from every pore on my body. Good times.
7) Sharing Christmas
Once I got married, Christmas time changesd again. My wife’s family lives a good distance away so it is not reasonable for us to travel from my family to her family on Christmas day, so we have Christmas with my family one year and Christmas with her family on other years.
There is some culture shock going from your own style of family Christmas to another style or the traditions of another family’s Christmas.
The lights on the tree are different, the food is different, and the conversation is different.
One thing is consistent through most families I have spent time with at Christmas though – we all have one relative, be it a brother or sister, mother or father or so on that is absolutely insane and believes Christmas is ‘their’ day. They try to control the entire debacle of events that makes Christmas real, and manage to annoy almost everyone. Most families use alcohol to block this person out. I find earplugs work really well, too.
Oh, the sheer joy of driving nine hours through sleet and snow, deer and bears, and things I can only call ‘strange’ at this time.
Don’t get me wrong. Spending quality time with my wife and her family isn’t that painful, but sometimes I’ll catch myself daydreaming about the possibility getting lost on some Godforsaken road in the U.P. and being dragged from my truck by Sasquatch or a Yeti or possibly some hybrid of the two, and used for a Christmas Eve snack. Even if it is only to help the scientific community prove that Sasquatch exists when, the following spring when they find one of my unmistakeably tacky Acapulco shirts in an unidentifiable mound of what will later be called Sasquatch leavings (‘Yeti Poop’ to the lay person). This is the dream that keeps me going during this time of year.
We arrive at my wife’s parents’ house (or as I like to call them: my ‘anti-parents’),. where I am subjected to questions I can’t answer and conversations about people I don’t know. I never knew how much I enjoyed standing outside and smoking in the skin freezing cold until a few years ago. Quiet, oh blessed quiet, with the trees creaking and swaying under the extra weight of pure white snow. The light foot steps of deer close by and unknown growls coming from the darkened tree line about 150 feet from where I stand. When I return to the house, I attempt to sneak into the bedroom for what I consider the greatest gift ever: sleep. I am halted in my tracks by a four-year-old speaking a language that sounds like PortuSpanglish. He’s holding a plastic golf club and wearing some manner of space helmet. I still do not know to this day what ‘thwing ad dolf balfs’ means. Sweat runs from my forehead until I throw out use this old chestnut ‘ Hey Buddy, your mom just called you – go see what she wants.’ His plastic golf club turns into a jet pack as he zooms away to find his mom. I slowly make my way to the bedroom where I don’t bother to take my shoes off and just slide into bed. Oh blessed angels on high, I have found my Graceland. I get to nap for about eight minutes, until I am awoken by the door creaking open, giggles, and the sound of an goddam imaginary jet pack. I peel back the covers to see three runny noses, two toothy grins, and something that resembles gums with a can opener wedged inside of it. ‘Wwad due wue duing unca bwookth?’ Up and at ‘em.
A certain aspect of Christmas that always makes me smile is the look on kids’ faces when they open gifts on Christmas Day. This is quickly undone when the kids start to talk, whine or cry. Hiding in the basement with the dog generally remedies this.
Christmas morning comes, and we are shocked into consciousness by ear splitting shrieks of small children. By the time I have put pants on and walked out to the living room the shrieking has been replaced by crying. [Note to all adults: – Children to do not see ‘value’. Children see the number of presents they got and the number of presents their brother or sister got. It’s a numbers game to them, and if they don’t get at least the same number it becomes a pouting game. Have no fear – kids are dumb. To even up the numbers, give them cheap Chinese -made gifts that contain lead paint. IF you are one of those people who think lead paint is ‘bad’ because it could ‘kill’ your child, give them socks or goofy looking mittens. I like to give my nephews sweaters that will guarantee a playground ass whooping!]
Play by Play
The kids are out of the gate. Five-year-old Billy is down the stairs and tearing his stocking off the wall. It’s like the rug rat parade here in the living room as the kids have descended upon the tree like locusts – tearing and pushing and grabbing anything with wrapping paper. The boys have elected to try the ‘soft gifts get hidden behind/under or under the couch’ play, but Grandma is not having any of it. The fathers and uncles have begun drinking, and why not- it is 6:30 in the morning. Ooohhh a Transformer box to the head gets a flag on the play, while mom checks little Cindy for gaping head wounds. Cindy is ok and running toward her brother with her ‘My Little Pony’ carrying case … and he is down and crying. His ancestors felt that hit. Good news – Billy has lost his first tooth. It is stuck in the wood flooring. Fathers and brothers and Grampa are now rooting thru the medicine cabinet in a desperate attempt to find anything that will take the edge off. John opts for the Estrogen pills- his boobs will be sore in the morning because of that bonehead play. In a vicious display of Kiddy Christmas antics, all of the children have opened up the adults’ gifts – what a ballsey play by the children – we are awaiting a ruling from the judges- “Fair Play” and the kids go wild.
Then, just as quickly as it started, suddenly all the gifts are gone. The dust and wrapping paper slowly settle to the living room floor. We seem to be missing a one -year -old and the dog. Kick, trip, fall, swear, cry, and Grampa is down holding his hip. Little Addison has been found and we think that the dog has been eaten in what can only be described as a Christmas Version of 'Lord of the Flies'.
Keep yourself tuned to this channel in two years for ‘Kiddy Christmas Carnage.’
As chaotic as it sounds, and all things being equal – my wife’s family is only slightly more Christmas Psychotic than my own.
In Summary
I don’t know why Christmas is special, but it is, and I am glad for that. It’s a time to look back and realize all the things I should have done and all the things I shouldn’t have done and realize that next year, maybe, I could be less of a jackass. Maybe then, my family would let me sleep in.
I have been running it over in my head and, every time I do, the historical steady decline in fun always comes out in phases.
I attach the following for your information and amusement.
1)What the Hell is going on?
Through the use of archive photographs and the recollections of relatives who used to be drunks but are now just mildly senile, I was able to construct what Christmas may have been like when I was 2- or 3 years old.
The Mall
Who is this fat SOB with the white beard? How dare you pick me up and jostle me around like I was a $2 whore. I have just peed on your leg, and I think I just soiled myself, to boot.
Christmas Morning
Dragged from the comfort and security of my bed and favourite blanket, at 5:30am, I am dragged downstairs by my brothers in what could only be described as a picture perfect Italian Army Retreat: Asses and Elbows.
To my amazement, someone has left boxes and pretty paper around a tree. I thoroughly enjoyed making a fort out of boxes and eating the colourful paper.
The remainder of the day is spent fighting over toys and, being poked and prodded by old people. and I still don’t know who the fat man in the red suit is.
2)I think the Fat Man is OK!
Between the ages of 4 and 6 years old, I remember Christmas. Not vividly, but enough to know that this Fat Man was is alright in my book. I was still a little leaery of him, as you one could tell if you they saw the picture of me and the Fat Man. The look of ‘I really like you, but keep your distance’ danced from my eyes, with tinges of fear and loathing jumbled in for effect.
This age seems to coincide with raised voices and getting into trouble for launching Nerf products at grandma while she worked on her 6th rum and coke of the morning. Back in the early Seventies, little was understood about the a correlation between sugar intake and hyper activity. We weren’t over stimulated, we were ‘acting crazy’ and the candy canes and chocolate and sweets were not the culprits.
3)What Do You Mean?
My bubble was burst when I was 6 years old. My older brothers knew, but tried to shield me from the truth. However there is always that one kid in the neighbourhood who has to share the pain with everybody once he discovers that the Jolly Old Saint Nick likely isn’t real.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to pretend that you believe in Santa Clause when you are 6 years old. You have been lied to by the very people who tell you not to lie, and the one guy, the most known person on the planet turns out to be a myth. The one thing we could all stand together to and believe in is taken away. That ‘kid’ I mentioned earlier almost always has red hair and bad teeth. This is the reason I dislike bad -toothed red -headed people to this day.
4)Thanks for the Socks!
Christmas turns into a day to receive socks you’ll never wear, books you won’t read, and visits to relatives you’ve never liked. All I ever wanted to do during Christmas during the time span of 12-19 years old was be with my friends.
Being with my friends was what made Christmas fun. Shooting out Christmas lights with a pellet gun was what Christmas meant to me. It was the time of the bastard!
5)First Girlfriend Gift
Around the that same time, most of us gave a really bad gift to the girl we were dating at the time. I don’t remember the piece of crap gift I gave, but at the time, it was the ‘most coolest’ gift ever. Mine was likely some perfume that could be used to anesthetise farm animals. For all I know it could have been hockey cards. To this day, I still give crappy gifts. I gave my wife a softball and kitchen tongs last years. Luckily, I had my shoes on at the time, and was able to make a hasty retreat. because I could hear her as I fled that I would need the tongs to remove the softball from a certain bodily orifice, and something about me being really stupid.
6)The Party Years
Nineteen years old, and up until marriage we had some damn good parties. Friends and a lot of booze were what Christmas meant to me. These were also the years that my parents would wake me up at 6am on Christmas morning -after letting me sleep for about half an hour - to revel in the Christmas spirit with family and friends. Even a hot shower and after -shave overdose couldn’t mask the odour of beer, rye and cigarettes oozing from every pore on my body. Good times.
7) Sharing Christmas
Once I got married, Christmas time changesd again. My wife’s family lives a good distance away so it is not reasonable for us to travel from my family to her family on Christmas day, so we have Christmas with my family one year and Christmas with her family on other years.
There is some culture shock going from your own style of family Christmas to another style or the traditions of another family’s Christmas.
The lights on the tree are different, the food is different, and the conversation is different.
One thing is consistent through most families I have spent time with at Christmas though – we all have one relative, be it a brother or sister, mother or father or so on that is absolutely insane and believes Christmas is ‘their’ day. They try to control the entire debacle of events that makes Christmas real, and manage to annoy almost everyone. Most families use alcohol to block this person out. I find earplugs work really well, too.
Oh, the sheer joy of driving nine hours through sleet and snow, deer and bears, and things I can only call ‘strange’ at this time.
Don’t get me wrong. Spending quality time with my wife and her family isn’t that painful, but sometimes I’ll catch myself daydreaming about the possibility getting lost on some Godforsaken road in the U.P. and being dragged from my truck by Sasquatch or a Yeti or possibly some hybrid of the two, and used for a Christmas Eve snack. Even if it is only to help the scientific community prove that Sasquatch exists when, the following spring when they find one of my unmistakeably tacky Acapulco shirts in an unidentifiable mound of what will later be called Sasquatch leavings (‘Yeti Poop’ to the lay person). This is the dream that keeps me going during this time of year.
We arrive at my wife’s parents’ house (or as I like to call them: my ‘anti-parents’),. where I am subjected to questions I can’t answer and conversations about people I don’t know. I never knew how much I enjoyed standing outside and smoking in the skin freezing cold until a few years ago. Quiet, oh blessed quiet, with the trees creaking and swaying under the extra weight of pure white snow. The light foot steps of deer close by and unknown growls coming from the darkened tree line about 150 feet from where I stand. When I return to the house, I attempt to sneak into the bedroom for what I consider the greatest gift ever: sleep. I am halted in my tracks by a four-year-old speaking a language that sounds like PortuSpanglish. He’s holding a plastic golf club and wearing some manner of space helmet. I still do not know to this day what ‘thwing ad dolf balfs’ means. Sweat runs from my forehead until I throw out use this old chestnut ‘ Hey Buddy, your mom just called you – go see what she wants.’ His plastic golf club turns into a jet pack as he zooms away to find his mom. I slowly make my way to the bedroom where I don’t bother to take my shoes off and just slide into bed. Oh blessed angels on high, I have found my Graceland. I get to nap for about eight minutes, until I am awoken by the door creaking open, giggles, and the sound of an goddam imaginary jet pack. I peel back the covers to see three runny noses, two toothy grins, and something that resembles gums with a can opener wedged inside of it. ‘Wwad due wue duing unca bwookth?’ Up and at ‘em.
A certain aspect of Christmas that always makes me smile is the look on kids’ faces when they open gifts on Christmas Day. This is quickly undone when the kids start to talk, whine or cry. Hiding in the basement with the dog generally remedies this.
Christmas morning comes, and we are shocked into consciousness by ear splitting shrieks of small children. By the time I have put pants on and walked out to the living room the shrieking has been replaced by crying. [Note to all adults: – Children to do not see ‘value’. Children see the number of presents they got and the number of presents their brother or sister got. It’s a numbers game to them, and if they don’t get at least the same number it becomes a pouting game. Have no fear – kids are dumb. To even up the numbers, give them cheap Chinese -made gifts that contain lead paint. IF you are one of those people who think lead paint is ‘bad’ because it could ‘kill’ your child, give them socks or goofy looking mittens. I like to give my nephews sweaters that will guarantee a playground ass whooping!]
Play by Play
The kids are out of the gate. Five-year-old Billy is down the stairs and tearing his stocking off the wall. It’s like the rug rat parade here in the living room as the kids have descended upon the tree like locusts – tearing and pushing and grabbing anything with wrapping paper. The boys have elected to try the ‘soft gifts get hidden behind/under or under the couch’ play, but Grandma is not having any of it. The fathers and uncles have begun drinking, and why not- it is 6:30 in the morning. Ooohhh a Transformer box to the head gets a flag on the play, while mom checks little Cindy for gaping head wounds. Cindy is ok and running toward her brother with her ‘My Little Pony’ carrying case … and he is down and crying. His ancestors felt that hit. Good news – Billy has lost his first tooth. It is stuck in the wood flooring. Fathers and brothers and Grampa are now rooting thru the medicine cabinet in a desperate attempt to find anything that will take the edge off. John opts for the Estrogen pills- his boobs will be sore in the morning because of that bonehead play. In a vicious display of Kiddy Christmas antics, all of the children have opened up the adults’ gifts – what a ballsey play by the children – we are awaiting a ruling from the judges- “Fair Play” and the kids go wild.
Then, just as quickly as it started, suddenly all the gifts are gone. The dust and wrapping paper slowly settle to the living room floor. We seem to be missing a one -year -old and the dog. Kick, trip, fall, swear, cry, and Grampa is down holding his hip. Little Addison has been found and we think that the dog has been eaten in what can only be described as a Christmas Version of 'Lord of the Flies'.
Keep yourself tuned to this channel in two years for ‘Kiddy Christmas Carnage.’
As chaotic as it sounds, and all things being equal – my wife’s family is only slightly more Christmas Psychotic than my own.
In Summary
I don’t know why Christmas is special, but it is, and I am glad for that. It’s a time to look back and realize all the things I should have done and all the things I shouldn’t have done and realize that next year, maybe, I could be less of a jackass. Maybe then, my family would let me sleep in.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tis' the Season
Tis’ the Season
The season is upon us and I for one am making a stand. I will not be observing ‘winter break’ this year. I will be observing “Christmas.” I will take pride in saying, ‘Mohammed, I wish you and your family a Merry Christmas!’ ‘Saul Goldsteinberg- have a Merry Christmas!” Do you know what else? I am not going to be insulted if they say ‘Enjoy Ramadan!’ or ‘Happy Hanukkah!’ I am not even going to get upset if I am wished a Blessed Kwanza.
I know this is ‘radical’ outside of the box, non politically acceptable behaviour, but I am going to give it a whirl this year, try it on, take it for a ride and see what happens.
Pariahs, fiends and other untalented unhappy lunatics do not want us to have a Christmas, let alone a Merry Christmas. I am pretty sure that we are not allowed to have ‘Happy Holidays’ – ‘Seasons Greetings’ or the ‘Best of the Season’ either. Ebeneezar Scrooge was a prick but at least he called it Christmas and gave Cratchett a half day off to celebrate with Sick Boy.
Who doesn’t enjoy Christmas? Eating too much? Drinking too much? Peeing on the Christmas tree in front of Auntie Ethel. Who doesn’t enjoy that? As we all gather around the browning shrubbery we paid a lot of money for and for some reason smells like urine, who can say they don’t or never have enjoyed Christmas?
I think we may need a front, or a name to show people we are serious about keeping Christmas, well, Christmas! Something that tells the anti-Christmas whiners we are serious. PPOFS –People Pissed Off For Santa, or POOFS (If you believe Santa is a eggnog swilling homo). GUSOGUD – Give Us Santa or Give Us Death. Possibly something like AWMFC – Axe Wielding Maniacs For Christmas – maybe that will let whoever is trying to stop Christmas know that we are serious.
The Big Question
Who are these people who don’t want us to say Christmas? Aside from the first words to roll off my tongue and is actually an insult to rectums everywhere, all I can say is –“I do not know!” They seem to be – ‘those people’ – sometimes it is –‘you know “them”’, but, who really are ‘they’? And how do we get rid of ‘them’?
I have heard that we all need to be sensitive to ‘them’ and ‘their’ needs but I can honestly say that I have never seen ‘them’ and due to that I am positive that I don’t know what ‘their’ needs are. Perhaps all ‘they’ need is Christmas hug and to be invited to our homes to stare blissfully upon our Christmas trees while urinating on them in front of Auntie Ethel. Christmas is a magical time and entertaining time with my family.
If any of ‘them’ read this please contact me via email with a picture so I can say that I know who ‘they’ are. I’d like to put a face with Klanging sound the shovel makes in my dream as I bash you over the head with it
I have been forced to saddle up to a lot of social mores. For instance, wearing pants in public places and not stealing candy from children. I can toe the line, see the line, make a bee line, but now I am drawing the line. I am saying “Christmas” this year and I don’t care who I offend. I may even learn to say it in several languages just to piss people off – you know- ‘them’.
To all my friends and soon to be former friends – Feliz Navidad,, Joyeux Noël, God jul, Feliz Natal, عيد ميلاد مجيد, Merry Christmas!
The season is upon us and I for one am making a stand. I will not be observing ‘winter break’ this year. I will be observing “Christmas.” I will take pride in saying, ‘Mohammed, I wish you and your family a Merry Christmas!’ ‘Saul Goldsteinberg- have a Merry Christmas!” Do you know what else? I am not going to be insulted if they say ‘Enjoy Ramadan!’ or ‘Happy Hanukkah!’ I am not even going to get upset if I am wished a Blessed Kwanza.
I know this is ‘radical’ outside of the box, non politically acceptable behaviour, but I am going to give it a whirl this year, try it on, take it for a ride and see what happens.
Pariahs, fiends and other untalented unhappy lunatics do not want us to have a Christmas, let alone a Merry Christmas. I am pretty sure that we are not allowed to have ‘Happy Holidays’ – ‘Seasons Greetings’ or the ‘Best of the Season’ either. Ebeneezar Scrooge was a prick but at least he called it Christmas and gave Cratchett a half day off to celebrate with Sick Boy.
Who doesn’t enjoy Christmas? Eating too much? Drinking too much? Peeing on the Christmas tree in front of Auntie Ethel. Who doesn’t enjoy that? As we all gather around the browning shrubbery we paid a lot of money for and for some reason smells like urine, who can say they don’t or never have enjoyed Christmas?
I think we may need a front, or a name to show people we are serious about keeping Christmas, well, Christmas! Something that tells the anti-Christmas whiners we are serious. PPOFS –People Pissed Off For Santa, or POOFS (If you believe Santa is a eggnog swilling homo). GUSOGUD – Give Us Santa or Give Us Death. Possibly something like AWMFC – Axe Wielding Maniacs For Christmas – maybe that will let whoever is trying to stop Christmas know that we are serious.
The Big Question
Who are these people who don’t want us to say Christmas? Aside from the first words to roll off my tongue and is actually an insult to rectums everywhere, all I can say is –“I do not know!” They seem to be – ‘those people’ – sometimes it is –‘you know “them”’, but, who really are ‘they’? And how do we get rid of ‘them’?
I have heard that we all need to be sensitive to ‘them’ and ‘their’ needs but I can honestly say that I have never seen ‘them’ and due to that I am positive that I don’t know what ‘their’ needs are. Perhaps all ‘they’ need is Christmas hug and to be invited to our homes to stare blissfully upon our Christmas trees while urinating on them in front of Auntie Ethel. Christmas is a magical time and entertaining time with my family.
If any of ‘them’ read this please contact me via email with a picture so I can say that I know who ‘they’ are. I’d like to put a face with Klanging sound the shovel makes in my dream as I bash you over the head with it
I have been forced to saddle up to a lot of social mores. For instance, wearing pants in public places and not stealing candy from children. I can toe the line, see the line, make a bee line, but now I am drawing the line. I am saying “Christmas” this year and I don’t care who I offend. I may even learn to say it in several languages just to piss people off – you know- ‘them’.
To all my friends and soon to be former friends – Feliz Navidad,, Joyeux Noël, God jul, Feliz Natal, عيد ميلاد مجيد, Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Kids
Is it just me or do other people’s kids bother you? Not always. Just when the kid(s) seem to need a kick in the short pants that never seems to arrive.
I am not, in anyway, condoning violence or child abuse, in public, or within earshot of the general public. I do think that a smack on the bum to get a young kids attention is completely reasonable and no-one should be able to tell you it isn’t. Again, I am not talking about stoving in a kids head because he forgot to wipe his feet before he lites the house on fire.
My unsolicited advice has come from years of being child free and having the opportunity to have to sit and listen to parents talk about their kids.
I have had the great fortune to observe parents and kids of all ages interact as a ‘family’ unit and I have discovered the following;
1) Most kids are insane
2) Most parents are insane.
3) Any parent who tries to reason with a 2 year old child should have their head stoved in with a club.
4) Most people, especially those people without children do not really care to hear about your children for several reasons;
1) Your child is insane
2) You are insane
3) If I could I would stove in your head with a club rather than have to listen to you talk about your child for one nanosecond longer.
Things Parents Should Know –An Outsiders Opinion
1) Chances are your child is not ‘special’ or extraordinarily smart. Unless your 5 year old has cured cancer and ended world hunger they will be classified as an average child. There is an old saying parents would do well to remember, ‘You may be special to your mother and your father, but you are 5/8ths of bugger all to me!’ (feel free to change ‘bugger all’ to anything you wish).
2) Outsiders are generally being courteous to you by not telling you how rotten your kids really are. Here is a hint, outsiders may not be comfortable knocking the tar out of your mouthy little brat simply because it will put a strain on your dinner conversation later that evening. Who would want that to happen when we all look so forward to hearing about how smart and wonderful your little monster is during every course of what will inevitably one of the longest, most boring meals we will have to sit through because you (the parent(s)) find it impossible to talk about anything else. There have been times when I have wanted a waiter to flambe’ me rather than the dessert fruit just so I had an excuse to leave. Several times I have faked a heart attack just to have an excuse to leave (and get a free ride in an ambulance).
3) Outsiders, especially those without children, do not find it amazing that your child ‘learned’ to walk at 12 months or that your child was fully potty trained at 18 years old. We or more amazed that there was no government intervention that would ban or stop a lunatic such as you from procreating.
4) I know for myself that spending time around children is about as enjoyable as a root canal. I personally do not enjoy spending time with children, unless they are capable of retrieving beer and making a Mojito. I look at children and all I see is germs, snot, tears and attitude. If I ever have to hear, ‘That’s not the way my mom does it!’ from some little snot monster I will only feel obliged to retort in some fitting manner such as, a) ‘if your mother believed in birth control we wouldn’t be having this conversation’ b) Just because your mother does it wrong is no reason to try and make me do it wrong. c) Add your own witty retort.
I long for days where children were only expected to be seen and not heard. Where the opinion of a child was as useful as painful gas cramps in a crowded elevator. You know the good ole days where parents were not friends with their children and children spent their days in fear of their parents. Where sending a whiny little pisher to bed without dinner was not a felony and the words, ‘because I said so!’ was a completely legitimate reason. Oh I long for the days when “enough!” said properly could make a small child poop in their pants. I yearn for the days when a noisy child in a restaurant was an embarrassment to the parents rather than the annoyance to other diners it has become. I remember fondly being escorted out of a few restaurants by my ear or shirt tails and placed in the car in the parking lot and told not to move a muscle. I remember having my hand slapped away from whatever magical and wonderful food I knew I wanted as kid sitting in the grocery cart and learning, painfully slow, that No meant no. My desire is to instil in the kids of today, the same fear I had of my parents. I want today’s kids to understand what ‘swift and blinding’ punishment for their actions is. I long for days where lying was the biggest sin a child could commit and talking back to your parents and teachers was a hanging offence. Teachers and coaches were always right and our parents rarely if ever took our side.
If it were put to a vote today, I would vote yes to allowing teachers’ beat the bejeezus out of our youth at school. Children have the rights to shut the hell up and do as they are told. That should be universally adopted as the only rights children have.
I still call older family friends ‘Mister or Misses So and So’ until they tell me it is ok to call them by their first names. Today 5 year olds call senior citizens by their first names without earning that right. Where is the respect? Along the lines of basic manners I have to say that kids today are generally clueless and I have on several occasions almost vomited sitting at a dinner table watching lack of manners in action. Remember that ‘kids’ table at large family gatherings? That was the proving ground for manners (or until great grandma Eunice passed away and made room for one more at the ‘grown up table). Once you mastered chewing with your mouth closed, and asking politely for something rather than leaping across the table to get it, you stood a chance of moving up to the big show.
I always have a small chuckle when people tell me I should have had kids. They say things like. “who’s going to take care of you when you are older?” and “ and you don’t know what you are missing by not having a child!” First, I am hopeful that the money I have saved by not having children will afford me the life I want and need when I retire – which I will do considerably before you can simply because I do not have children sponging off of me until they are, oh, say 35 years old and as incompetent as the next retard breast fed, never punished, don’t know how to work or take criticism without pouting loser of the same era. Secondly, if you have children, you can’t say anything other than –‘boy having kids is the greatest!’ It is a trap. Rest assured most father’s of whiny little kids, under the influence of 1 or 2 beers would admit that having kids has sucked out their remaining will to live. You have to say you love your kids. You don’t have a choice. Don’t try to sucker us into making the same mistake you did.
I am not, in anyway, condoning violence or child abuse, in public, or within earshot of the general public. I do think that a smack on the bum to get a young kids attention is completely reasonable and no-one should be able to tell you it isn’t. Again, I am not talking about stoving in a kids head because he forgot to wipe his feet before he lites the house on fire.
My unsolicited advice has come from years of being child free and having the opportunity to have to sit and listen to parents talk about their kids.
I have had the great fortune to observe parents and kids of all ages interact as a ‘family’ unit and I have discovered the following;
1) Most kids are insane
2) Most parents are insane.
3) Any parent who tries to reason with a 2 year old child should have their head stoved in with a club.
4) Most people, especially those people without children do not really care to hear about your children for several reasons;
1) Your child is insane
2) You are insane
3) If I could I would stove in your head with a club rather than have to listen to you talk about your child for one nanosecond longer.
Things Parents Should Know –An Outsiders Opinion
1) Chances are your child is not ‘special’ or extraordinarily smart. Unless your 5 year old has cured cancer and ended world hunger they will be classified as an average child. There is an old saying parents would do well to remember, ‘You may be special to your mother and your father, but you are 5/8ths of bugger all to me!’ (feel free to change ‘bugger all’ to anything you wish).
2) Outsiders are generally being courteous to you by not telling you how rotten your kids really are. Here is a hint, outsiders may not be comfortable knocking the tar out of your mouthy little brat simply because it will put a strain on your dinner conversation later that evening. Who would want that to happen when we all look so forward to hearing about how smart and wonderful your little monster is during every course of what will inevitably one of the longest, most boring meals we will have to sit through because you (the parent(s)) find it impossible to talk about anything else. There have been times when I have wanted a waiter to flambe’ me rather than the dessert fruit just so I had an excuse to leave. Several times I have faked a heart attack just to have an excuse to leave (and get a free ride in an ambulance).
3) Outsiders, especially those without children, do not find it amazing that your child ‘learned’ to walk at 12 months or that your child was fully potty trained at 18 years old. We or more amazed that there was no government intervention that would ban or stop a lunatic such as you from procreating.
4) I know for myself that spending time around children is about as enjoyable as a root canal. I personally do not enjoy spending time with children, unless they are capable of retrieving beer and making a Mojito. I look at children and all I see is germs, snot, tears and attitude. If I ever have to hear, ‘That’s not the way my mom does it!’ from some little snot monster I will only feel obliged to retort in some fitting manner such as, a) ‘if your mother believed in birth control we wouldn’t be having this conversation’ b) Just because your mother does it wrong is no reason to try and make me do it wrong. c) Add your own witty retort.
I long for days where children were only expected to be seen and not heard. Where the opinion of a child was as useful as painful gas cramps in a crowded elevator. You know the good ole days where parents were not friends with their children and children spent their days in fear of their parents. Where sending a whiny little pisher to bed without dinner was not a felony and the words, ‘because I said so!’ was a completely legitimate reason. Oh I long for the days when “enough!” said properly could make a small child poop in their pants. I yearn for the days when a noisy child in a restaurant was an embarrassment to the parents rather than the annoyance to other diners it has become. I remember fondly being escorted out of a few restaurants by my ear or shirt tails and placed in the car in the parking lot and told not to move a muscle. I remember having my hand slapped away from whatever magical and wonderful food I knew I wanted as kid sitting in the grocery cart and learning, painfully slow, that No meant no. My desire is to instil in the kids of today, the same fear I had of my parents. I want today’s kids to understand what ‘swift and blinding’ punishment for their actions is. I long for days where lying was the biggest sin a child could commit and talking back to your parents and teachers was a hanging offence. Teachers and coaches were always right and our parents rarely if ever took our side.
If it were put to a vote today, I would vote yes to allowing teachers’ beat the bejeezus out of our youth at school. Children have the rights to shut the hell up and do as they are told. That should be universally adopted as the only rights children have.
I still call older family friends ‘Mister or Misses So and So’ until they tell me it is ok to call them by their first names. Today 5 year olds call senior citizens by their first names without earning that right. Where is the respect? Along the lines of basic manners I have to say that kids today are generally clueless and I have on several occasions almost vomited sitting at a dinner table watching lack of manners in action. Remember that ‘kids’ table at large family gatherings? That was the proving ground for manners (or until great grandma Eunice passed away and made room for one more at the ‘grown up table). Once you mastered chewing with your mouth closed, and asking politely for something rather than leaping across the table to get it, you stood a chance of moving up to the big show.
I always have a small chuckle when people tell me I should have had kids. They say things like. “who’s going to take care of you when you are older?” and “ and you don’t know what you are missing by not having a child!” First, I am hopeful that the money I have saved by not having children will afford me the life I want and need when I retire – which I will do considerably before you can simply because I do not have children sponging off of me until they are, oh, say 35 years old and as incompetent as the next retard breast fed, never punished, don’t know how to work or take criticism without pouting loser of the same era. Secondly, if you have children, you can’t say anything other than –‘boy having kids is the greatest!’ It is a trap. Rest assured most father’s of whiny little kids, under the influence of 1 or 2 beers would admit that having kids has sucked out their remaining will to live. You have to say you love your kids. You don’t have a choice. Don’t try to sucker us into making the same mistake you did.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Family Get Togethers
Family Get Togethers
I find the best way to enjoy a family get together is to not be there. Barring the ability to not be able show up, the next best solution is alcohol and plenty of it.
No-one enjoys spending time with their family. Anyone who says they do enjoy spending time with their family has obviously not spent enough money on therapy and is certainly in denial about how messed up their childhood really was.
Arriving
It is never good to be the first to show up. The position of favourite child was filled long ago and not by you! Just because mom didn’t sleep for 4 months because YOU were a colicky baby is a horrible excuse but, you are not the favourite and should reserve this special position for the sibling who had the ability to lie the best to your mother as a child. Your father will not get involved in this ‘favourite child’ debate as his life was over the moment the first child was born and the fact that he would still rather drown you in a gunny sack than acknowledge you are alive tells us clearly that dear old dad’s only real friend is Jim Beam.
This being said, you should arrive late and block in the vehicle of the sibling who has parked in a manner that would allow him /or her to leave quickly and easily right after dessert. If blocking their car in won’t work, simply slash a tire or tear the starter out their car.
Hors d'oeuvres
This is a fiendish test by your mother to find out who is kissing backside to get elevated in the will. There are several ways to respond to this test.
If you are the favourite son or daughter it is of the utmost importance to pretend as though the hors d'oeuvres being served are the culmination of the world’s greatest chefs finest attempt at placing heaven on your taste buds. This is a bold faced lie – and your mother knows it – but she will not call you on it as she does not want to reveal the effort she put into this trap. And since her favourite has brown nosed their way thru her first obstacle course- she will be content in knowing that the old age home she is put in will not likely have leather restraints and huggy jackets in it.
If you are the odd person out in your family – the one mom would throw out of the nest- the black sheep – it is up to you to maintain some sense of dissension in the family. Gagging and pretending to almost vomit will do quite well. Comments such as, ‘ it’s supposed to be goose liver, not goose shit pate!’ or ‘I would rather eat skunk butt than take another bite of this!’ Not only will this confuse people but it will also show that you are honest. You may be able to leave before dinner also –which can be seen as a bonus for your honesty.
Idle Chit Chat
Sitting around the living room with your family will allow you to discover what a bunch of liars you are related to.
Listening to your brother share his knowledge of the stock market and all of his windfalls from his shrewd business dealings will make you want to beat him with a tack hammer. The pure satisfaction of knowing you can go to his place of employment and kick the mop he uses out from under him should give you the mental satisfaction you crave. Also hold dear the fact that he is 8 months behind in his child support and has told you he is worried about the rash that developed after he spent the night with Giselle, the Haitian ‘exotic dancer’.
We should all bear in mind that when our parents talk it is perfectly acceptable to fall back on the skills we learned in high school, such as sleeping with your eyes open. Parents want to share their wealth of worldly experiences and who doesn’t like being told that whatever they do is not nearly as difficult or rewarding as the time their parents did the same thing. It is useful to have your young niece or nephew around to sit near you or on you so they can block the view of your parents as you sleep while they reminisce about cow tipping and driving drunk.
The Meal
Gathering around the dining room table, at the spot marked with your name on the god awful looking glass swans your mother paid too much for is the perfect time to let everyone know what you think of the seating arrangements. Rearrange the name tags in random order- this should elicit the desired effect of finding out who really cannot tolerate certain people and sometimes why. It is best to place your sister in law or wife adjacent to the loudest or stinkiest member of your family. If you enjoy your sex life at home I suggest you prey upon the sister in law. Once everyone is seated it will fall upon the grandchildren to say grace in some god awful language that takes ten minutes and ends with them thanking God for unicorns and puppy dogs. After you wake up from your ‘grace’ induced coma, feel free to criticize your father on his carving techniques. It is generally better to sit at the far end of the table if you are inclined to do this as the old boy may still have one mad dash left in him. Temper this situation knowing that you will be sitting closer to your mother which never bodes well for you since you married a brown eyed European Catholic girl.
Peace can be found during dinner as your family stuffs their faces and ignores the rest of the family-the way things should be. The meal will be really good since mom does not want you tell anyone that she is not a good cook. This should make up for the poison hors d’ oeuvres if you have any functioning taste buds left.
When the meal is finished feel free to suggest that your sister in laws should be obligated to clear the table. They will thank you for allowing them a five minute reprieve from your lunatic family and they will also enjoy the opportunity to chip or break your mother’s fine China. You will be thanked for your kindness by having hot coffee and some manner of blueberry torte spilled on your lap. You are welcome to remove your pants and lick the delicious dessert off your chinos. Your family will expect this behaviour from you so feel free to wear an interesting pair of underwear or show your bohemian side by not wearing any underwear at all. The look of disappointment from your father will help him reinforce his regret of ever having children.
The Escape
Promptly after the last gulp of coffee has been downed your brother will kick his youngest child in the shin under cover of the tablecloth causing the lawn ape to sob uncontrollably. This is his cue to get up and leave. Luckily you have blocked his car in the driveway – so, begrudgingly you must leave also. Act disappointed that you have to leave. A well placed motor vehicle can save you from a slide show or vacation videos of your mother and fathers trip to a Des Moines knitting supply store.
Almost There
While you, your wife, your brothers and sisters, there spouses and their children fight each other to put their shoes and coats on in a wild melee of flailing arms and knees to the groin, your mother will suggest that you all take some leftovers home with you. This is the last of the evenings trickery from your mother. If you hurriedly accept the offer you infer that your spouse is a horrible cook (which they probably are), if you don’t accept you may break your mother’s cold jaded heart (and therefore definitely be out of the will). Patience is the key here. Look up slowly, rotate your face towards your spouse. The puzzled and bewildered look in your eyes will let them know that you care about their feelings. If, upon gazing at your spouse you do not turn to stone, burst into flames or know and accept that you will hitching a ride to the basement couch hotel, you may at this point slowly turn to your mother and say, ‘I guess I could take a little bit of leftovers.’ Your father’s gaze will let you know what is acceptable for taking and what is to be left for him. He may reinforce his position by waving around his will and the pencil he has used to temporarily place you back in his will.
Chaos in the Driveway
Seeing as this family dinner has vacuumed away ten years of your life you should feel no regret in pushing, screaming and trampling all who get in your way as you run to the sanctity of your car. Your wife may be a little upset that you threw her down in an attempt to slow down the stampeding mass of siblings but she will understand your plan when her car door is open and you are already travelling at 25 mph in reverse trying to get out of the driveway. With any luck the velocity of the car and the open door should knock your wife into the car. If this doesn’t work you will have to slam on the brakes so the open door will help them slow down enough to be ricochet inside of the car. Leave no bush or tree unscathed in your escape. Mowing down flora and fauna will give your father an excuse to not be in the house with your mother. You may feel bad for trampling your 6 year old niece or nephew but you have done them a favour by teaching them that life is cruel.
Slow Your Heart Rate Down
Once at home, copious amounts of alcohol may be required to slow your heart down. Indulge yourself. Your next family meal is 2 months away. Training won’t begin for three weeks.
I find the best way to enjoy a family get together is to not be there. Barring the ability to not be able show up, the next best solution is alcohol and plenty of it.
No-one enjoys spending time with their family. Anyone who says they do enjoy spending time with their family has obviously not spent enough money on therapy and is certainly in denial about how messed up their childhood really was.
Arriving
It is never good to be the first to show up. The position of favourite child was filled long ago and not by you! Just because mom didn’t sleep for 4 months because YOU were a colicky baby is a horrible excuse but, you are not the favourite and should reserve this special position for the sibling who had the ability to lie the best to your mother as a child. Your father will not get involved in this ‘favourite child’ debate as his life was over the moment the first child was born and the fact that he would still rather drown you in a gunny sack than acknowledge you are alive tells us clearly that dear old dad’s only real friend is Jim Beam.
This being said, you should arrive late and block in the vehicle of the sibling who has parked in a manner that would allow him /or her to leave quickly and easily right after dessert. If blocking their car in won’t work, simply slash a tire or tear the starter out their car.
Hors d'oeuvres
This is a fiendish test by your mother to find out who is kissing backside to get elevated in the will. There are several ways to respond to this test.
If you are the favourite son or daughter it is of the utmost importance to pretend as though the hors d'oeuvres being served are the culmination of the world’s greatest chefs finest attempt at placing heaven on your taste buds. This is a bold faced lie – and your mother knows it – but she will not call you on it as she does not want to reveal the effort she put into this trap. And since her favourite has brown nosed their way thru her first obstacle course- she will be content in knowing that the old age home she is put in will not likely have leather restraints and huggy jackets in it.
If you are the odd person out in your family – the one mom would throw out of the nest- the black sheep – it is up to you to maintain some sense of dissension in the family. Gagging and pretending to almost vomit will do quite well. Comments such as, ‘ it’s supposed to be goose liver, not goose shit pate!’ or ‘I would rather eat skunk butt than take another bite of this!’ Not only will this confuse people but it will also show that you are honest. You may be able to leave before dinner also –which can be seen as a bonus for your honesty.
Idle Chit Chat
Sitting around the living room with your family will allow you to discover what a bunch of liars you are related to.
Listening to your brother share his knowledge of the stock market and all of his windfalls from his shrewd business dealings will make you want to beat him with a tack hammer. The pure satisfaction of knowing you can go to his place of employment and kick the mop he uses out from under him should give you the mental satisfaction you crave. Also hold dear the fact that he is 8 months behind in his child support and has told you he is worried about the rash that developed after he spent the night with Giselle, the Haitian ‘exotic dancer’.
We should all bear in mind that when our parents talk it is perfectly acceptable to fall back on the skills we learned in high school, such as sleeping with your eyes open. Parents want to share their wealth of worldly experiences and who doesn’t like being told that whatever they do is not nearly as difficult or rewarding as the time their parents did the same thing. It is useful to have your young niece or nephew around to sit near you or on you so they can block the view of your parents as you sleep while they reminisce about cow tipping and driving drunk.
The Meal
Gathering around the dining room table, at the spot marked with your name on the god awful looking glass swans your mother paid too much for is the perfect time to let everyone know what you think of the seating arrangements. Rearrange the name tags in random order- this should elicit the desired effect of finding out who really cannot tolerate certain people and sometimes why. It is best to place your sister in law or wife adjacent to the loudest or stinkiest member of your family. If you enjoy your sex life at home I suggest you prey upon the sister in law. Once everyone is seated it will fall upon the grandchildren to say grace in some god awful language that takes ten minutes and ends with them thanking God for unicorns and puppy dogs. After you wake up from your ‘grace’ induced coma, feel free to criticize your father on his carving techniques. It is generally better to sit at the far end of the table if you are inclined to do this as the old boy may still have one mad dash left in him. Temper this situation knowing that you will be sitting closer to your mother which never bodes well for you since you married a brown eyed European Catholic girl.
Peace can be found during dinner as your family stuffs their faces and ignores the rest of the family-the way things should be. The meal will be really good since mom does not want you tell anyone that she is not a good cook. This should make up for the poison hors d’ oeuvres if you have any functioning taste buds left.
When the meal is finished feel free to suggest that your sister in laws should be obligated to clear the table. They will thank you for allowing them a five minute reprieve from your lunatic family and they will also enjoy the opportunity to chip or break your mother’s fine China. You will be thanked for your kindness by having hot coffee and some manner of blueberry torte spilled on your lap. You are welcome to remove your pants and lick the delicious dessert off your chinos. Your family will expect this behaviour from you so feel free to wear an interesting pair of underwear or show your bohemian side by not wearing any underwear at all. The look of disappointment from your father will help him reinforce his regret of ever having children.
The Escape
Promptly after the last gulp of coffee has been downed your brother will kick his youngest child in the shin under cover of the tablecloth causing the lawn ape to sob uncontrollably. This is his cue to get up and leave. Luckily you have blocked his car in the driveway – so, begrudgingly you must leave also. Act disappointed that you have to leave. A well placed motor vehicle can save you from a slide show or vacation videos of your mother and fathers trip to a Des Moines knitting supply store.
Almost There
While you, your wife, your brothers and sisters, there spouses and their children fight each other to put their shoes and coats on in a wild melee of flailing arms and knees to the groin, your mother will suggest that you all take some leftovers home with you. This is the last of the evenings trickery from your mother. If you hurriedly accept the offer you infer that your spouse is a horrible cook (which they probably are), if you don’t accept you may break your mother’s cold jaded heart (and therefore definitely be out of the will). Patience is the key here. Look up slowly, rotate your face towards your spouse. The puzzled and bewildered look in your eyes will let them know that you care about their feelings. If, upon gazing at your spouse you do not turn to stone, burst into flames or know and accept that you will hitching a ride to the basement couch hotel, you may at this point slowly turn to your mother and say, ‘I guess I could take a little bit of leftovers.’ Your father’s gaze will let you know what is acceptable for taking and what is to be left for him. He may reinforce his position by waving around his will and the pencil he has used to temporarily place you back in his will.
Chaos in the Driveway
Seeing as this family dinner has vacuumed away ten years of your life you should feel no regret in pushing, screaming and trampling all who get in your way as you run to the sanctity of your car. Your wife may be a little upset that you threw her down in an attempt to slow down the stampeding mass of siblings but she will understand your plan when her car door is open and you are already travelling at 25 mph in reverse trying to get out of the driveway. With any luck the velocity of the car and the open door should knock your wife into the car. If this doesn’t work you will have to slam on the brakes so the open door will help them slow down enough to be ricochet inside of the car. Leave no bush or tree unscathed in your escape. Mowing down flora and fauna will give your father an excuse to not be in the house with your mother. You may feel bad for trampling your 6 year old niece or nephew but you have done them a favour by teaching them that life is cruel.
Slow Your Heart Rate Down
Once at home, copious amounts of alcohol may be required to slow your heart down. Indulge yourself. Your next family meal is 2 months away. Training won’t begin for three weeks.
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