In The Bag

You know what industry hasn't been hit by the recession?

The bagpipe industry.

I see all kinds of homeless guys in the street playing guitar, saxophone, bongos, trumpets - if I didn't know better, I'd say the Mighty Mighty Bosstones are roaming the streets of Cleveland begging for change.

But I never see bagpipe players.

Probably because they're too busy being baller.

Granted, the ceiling of a bagpipe player is pretty low - there is no bagpipe version of Kenny G.  And bagpipes aren't going to get as many chicks as, say, a keytar player, but in these tough economic times, it pays the bills.

And that's more than the Mighty Mighty Bosstones can say right now.

Out of (fe)Line

Dear Readers, meet Baffi, the cat.

He's a feline terrorist.  He is disgusted by human extravagances such as 'sleep' and 'not constantly having asses in their face'.

He has no regards for his own life - leaping from impossibly high platforms to destroy and contaminate any source of liquid I may want to consume.

Baffi is an anarchist - destroying order by chewing cords and scratching couches.  'The Man' needs electricity and comfort - Baffi needs chaos.

His only weakness seems to be narcolepsy and string. 

I am a lost cause - lost in some sort of strange Stockholm syndrome where I not only allow his cause - I support it with kitty treats and belly rubs. 

Save yourself, before it is too late.

He's coming, and when he does, you're pant legs will never be hairless again.

Something In The Water

There were a lot of things that caught me off guard when I first left the confines of my little farm town and moved to the big(ish) city of Cleveland.

Walk signs were one.  It seems city kids put a lot of trust into a little sign to tell them when to walk.  We unsophisticated country folk are so dumb and uneducated that instead of looking at a little box with christmas lights in it, we just LOOK TO SEE IF ANY CARS ARE GOING TO HIT US.  It is simple, but effective. But by all means, city kids, walk when the white man tells you to walk.

Another is water.  Everyone in the city seems to think that anything not out of a plastic bottle is poison.  Like unless faucet water goes through a Brita filter, it causes instant and incurable death by murder.  I grew up drinking old-egg smellin' sulfer water out of a 30 yr old hose - my wife throws out water if it has been sitting out for more than an hour.  How do city kids think people survived before Aquafina?  Why do they assume that everything will kill them?  Water is a billion years old and people are however old Andy Rooney was - we've lived this long, suck it up.

But perhaps nothing was as confusing as trying to make plans. 

There are so many decisions - and no one is every happy.  Do we want to go to happy hour? Dinner? After hours?  Do you want to drink beer? Wine? Martinis?  Do you want to dance? Drink? Get a table?  Are we going to eat? Just appetizers? Tapas?

WHAT THE HELL ARE TAPAS.

In the country - we just drank.  That was it.  We would literally get a case of beer, drive out to the country and park on some road that no one ever drove down and get hammered.  Or we'd find an old barn and drink in there.  There were almost no decisions to make.  Everyone wanted to get hammered.  Everyone drank Busch Light.  It was just about finding the easiest spot to combine the two.

And when you live in the country - finding a place to drink can be as easy as just crossing the street.

Feet of Strength

Why don't our hands smell terrible?

Human feet smell like garbage - but our hands come off pretty well.  I'm smelling my hands right now and there is nothing special to report.

Yet think of all the disgusting things we do with our hands.

I cleaned up fish poop last night, got rid of an old rotting pumpkin from Halloween and pulled old hunks of food out of the garbage disposal. 

And?  Nothing.  My hands smell just fine.

Yet my feet smell like a soup made out of the stuff you find under a refrigerator.  

The worst part is how much effort we put into our feet - we wash them, wrap them in cloth, then wrap them in a protective shoe.  What other part of our body do we spend that much effort protecting?  My boy bits have a tiny inch of cloth separating them from a giant metal zipper.  Where the hell are my priorities?

Not to mention - when I clean my feet, I USE MY HANDS!

How are hands exempt from smelling like feet?  Aren't they just arm feet?  And aren't our hands just leg hands?  Most animals have four matching feet - do only their back ones smell like Danny Devito's bath towel?

Or worse - Danny Devito's feet?

Tears for Beards

Things I've been up to:

Killed it with my Halloween costume.  Then reanimated the corpse and killed it again:

My wife is the first vegetarian zombie.

Turned my wife into a pedophile by shaving off my beard and looking 12 years old:

Did Hitler have the Chaplin or did Chaplin have the Hitler?

Built this robot to protect me from zombies and pedophiles:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I named him 'Fire Hazard'

And then freaked out when the robot turned on me and became a robotic pedophile zombie.

Emo Robot is emo

It can touch you inappropriately, but can it...feel?

Egghead.

Remember when I was all excited about getting egged?  About how I had finally achieved the American Dream?

Well, it happened again.

And I realized something...

...nobody cool ever gets egged.

James Dean never got egged.  Bono doesn't get egged.  I'll guarantee @DadBoner never gets egged, you guys.

You don't have to be a mathematician to know there is 0% chance you'll ever drive past Tom Hanks house and see him in PJ's and a winter coat, hosing egg off of his window.

As I was standing there, sandles in socks, hose in hand, the two teenage neighbor kids walked out to their car and asked what happened.

"I got egged."

"You got egged?  Do you even have kids?"

"No."

"And you still got egged?"

"Yep."

"Damn."

I got the egg off my window - but I can't seem to get it off my face.