Rocky Road Scholar

Why they don't call it deanslist

2009-12-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

I am addicted to craigslist, but it isn't just about filling my house with other people's crap. What really sells me is the frequent misunderstandings or misspellings that put an entirely different spin on an ad.

They didn't call this site deanslist for a reason.

Take the moron who was selling a beautiful "arm-war" in the antiques for sale section. He got pretty pissed at me when I emailed him that I was mildly interested in the arm-war, but 1-2-3-4 wanted to declare a thumb war instead. He sent a scathing response, calling me an idiot for not knowing an arm-war was a beautiful piece of wood furniture that's used to store clothes and jewelry.

"Furniture? Bummer," I wrote back. "Oh, well, if I can't buy an arm-war or a thumb war on here, I guess I'll just have to settle for some indian leg wrestling in casual encounters instead."

The personal ads is where the best entertainment was anyway. Some people's ideas of missed connections are heavy on the missed part.

One dude had lunch at a local Hooters, and his eyes met "Heather's" briefly a couple of times at his table and he thought there might be some kind of connection. He was going to come back in Thursday for lunch again, and he might just sweep her off her feet right then and there and carry her out of there. Whoa, slow down Richard Gere.

Chuck Woolery wasn't around to break it to him softly that this wasn't really a Love Connection, so it took me about 2 minutes and 2 seconds to drop him a line.

No doubt there were a couple of connections: She took your order, and then she came back with a pitcher of beer and some wings. But that's it, you jackass. Yes, she was smiling. She works for tips, and let's face it, she's basically a pair of tight orange shorts and an owl T-shirt away from being a stripper. I did give him credit that he was somehow able to take his eyes off her cannons long enough to memorize her nametag, though.

Another guy posted he was looking for a "cheep date." I suggested the best way to start is to put down those binoculars and quit taking notes. What he calls "watching" the rest of us call creepy stalking.

Instead, he should hang a feeder in his backyard. Sugar water works nice to attract petite types, or if he's looking for something exotic, perhaps sprinkling some Froot Loops would help him hit the jackpot. But I also warned him that cheep dates can sometimes be looking for a pretty specific type, like mammoths with ridiculously long names who want to keep things so discreet you can only call him your IFWB (imaginary friend with benefits).

Then there was the gal who was looking for someone who is "drug and decease free." Well good luck with that. We all gotta go sometime, sister. I asked if she would she consider someone undead. Vampires like me are all the rage now. Granted, I'm not as easy on the eyes as Robert Pattinson, but I was pretty much decease-free as long as I stay out of the sun and Blade doesn't find me. Also, if she wanted to meet in person (preferably between 11 PM and 4 AM), she would need to promise not to break my heart, or even worse, plunge a wooden stake into it. Also, to get with me, she would need to like blood shooters, bats, caskets, and counting. A shitload of counting.

Then there's the person who posted that she was "board in St. Paul." Sweet. I told her I'm an 8-penny nail and I thought we'd be perfect together. I also hoped she wouldn't hold it against me that I lived in a small plastic bucket with 4,999 roommates. I was pure and had never nailed anyone else. If we hit it off and she let me nail her, she should know if I wasn't nailing her the right way, she could just pry me out and I'll try again, even if I'm crooked. If she got impatient the second time around, as long as I'm halfway in, she could always just lay the rest of me over sideways and it will still work, it just won't be as clean. I really hoped she'd consider a threesome with a Hammer, because it's really not going to work any other way. But let's face it, even the best screw needs a hand when it comes down to it. Sure, hammers are complete tools, but they're not bad as long as they don't try banging your thumbs all night.

But my favorite poster said she was into "roll play." Oh, me too. Especially hot roll play when I wrap myself in tin foil and make myself a baguette. If she wants to find herself in a sticky situation, I can make myself a super sweet caramel roll. I've even been told my sweat smells like Cinnabon. Or maybe we can switch it up and I can be a butter pat and she can be a soft croissant. Oh, baby, foccacia me hard!

Mendota pub hopes horeshoes livens up Super Bowl party

2008-02-03T07:09:00.000-08:00

Super Bowl Sunday is all about throwing a good party, and it looks like Lucky's 13 Pub in Mendota has some special events planned that will knock your socks off. And your shoes (especially if you are a prostitute).

I'm normally not a plug lug, but when I saw the promotional poster for Lucky's Super Bowl tailgating lineup last week, I just couldn't resist sharing it.

Sure, they have hot dogs and beer, which is usually enough to get me anywhere, but Lucky's is all about the atmosphere for me. It seems like a 30s to 40s crowd with great food and 80s tunes always playing on the jukebox. The hottie servers are a bonus - My favorite shares the same name as that loaded lass from the Archie comics.

Back to the poster - The first thing that caught my eye was the frozen T-shirt contest. My friend Andy and I thought this was a Minnesota Winter version of a wet T-shirt contest. One of the managers assured us it wasn't. She explained it, but with a cool Grain Belt premium and a platter of nachos in front of me, I forget the jist of it.

Andy and I are both "big & tall" so we offered to be participants if she ever did a real wet T-shirt contest. After all, as far as moobs (man boobs) go, we have some of the nicest man racks around. I even had to warn our server "Hey, I'm up here" while pointing to my eyes to keep her from stealing glances at my hairy cannons. I feel so violated sometimes.

Anyway, I hadn't noticed it at first, but there was one event on the promotional poster that blew all the others away - Poor Man's Horeshoes.

That's right. Not horseshoes. Horeshoes. I guess poor men can't afford to buy a "W" on their wheel of fortune. The manager on duty claimed it was a mis-spelling. Yeah, right. I'm not missing out on the fun no matter what you say, honey. You put it in writing on a poster that I can throw some slut's shoes around, you better live up to it.

Reminds me of some folks down in a Florida retirement community trying to keep my Dad from playing Shufflebroad last year. Who wants to play shuffleboard once you've dangled the alternative carrot?

Same goes for horeshoes.

Hmmm, what could horeshoes entail? Throwing clear heels around a stripper pole, perhaps? That would be fitting since Lucky's 13 sits on the former site of the Mendota Saloon, an old locally famous "gentleman's" club.

So many questions come to mind when you think about horeshoes.

Just how much does horeshoes cost to play? Do you pay by the hour, or by the shoe? Either way, you would think it would be fairly pricey for a streetwalker to give up her walkin' shoes. Especially if they are those fancy hooker boots.

Is it a big insurance liability to have hookers running around a bar barefoot? What if someone breaks a glass? Maybe hook them up with some loaner flip-flops while their regular shoes are turning all those tricks.

Can you be arrested for playing horeshoes? Is asking a hooker to remove her heel so you can get a ringer considered solicitation? If I play horeshoes, do I need to change my name from Rocky to John?

I've heard of some funny versions of horseshoes, like the Redneck Games version where they throw toilet seat lids, but I'd still have to give horeshoes the gold medal for best original spin-off idea.

The questions keep coming... should I wear two condoms while playing horeshoes just to be on the safe side?

Does playing horeshoes come with a happy ending? If you have a really good time playing horeshoes, could you end up with Julia Roberts when it is over?

Normally, this whole thing would smell like some kind of vice squad sting, but I've been going to Lucky's for some time now and they've never "set me up" with anything other than awesome food and drinks. And as long as you just play with the shoes, it sounds like a fairly safe game provided you don't try to steal those heels. No one needs Guido The Killer Pimp chasing them on Highway 13.

Misfit Toys for 2007

2007-12-24T20:08:00.000-08:00

I hope Santa brings you something nice tonight.

Whether you were good or bad maybe one of these will be under your Christmas tree in the morning...

MATTEL FINGER PAINTING KIT - Hey, they had to do something with all of that leftover lead paint. No recall necessary on this one, folks. The proper precautions are already in place - each kit includes a mini haz-mat suit that fits all sizes under age 8.

POLLY POCKET POOL - What a rip-off! It's just some finger-tip chalk and instructions on how to hit your balls from your side pockets.

C'mon - like we little boys need any inspiration to play with ourselves!

NINTENDO Wii Wii - In this controversial new "shooter" game, Nintendo tries to zero in on the potty-training demographic by making its television target a virtual toilet. Docks points for pissing on the rim, bathroom walls, or in the wastebasket. Bonus points for shaking when finished. Guest stars Mario as the Tidy Bowl Man.

COUGAR GIRLS - This new line ages the Cheetah Girls by 30 years to give inspiration and tips to Cougars. Song and dance videos and dolls help the Cougars bag those Disneyesque pretty boys who are in their 20s, but act and look like they are teen-agers. You go, grrrls!

NERF MEDICINE BALL - If a Nerf football with spiral wings and an odometer blew you away, wait until you lift this squishy 17-pound orb. Train with this for a few weeks and you'll be slinging those Nerf footballs like Peyton Manning, dunking Nerfhoop like LeBron James, and launching Nerf rockets like you're a North Korean dictator!

FRENCH TICKLE ME ELMO - Don't worry, this is not a sex doll or anything. Although he is ribbed for your pleasure, there are no glory holes for The Count to tally here. Just an ill-advised play on words because this Elmo version is rude, speaks French, and smells like he hasn't taken a muppet shower in weeks.

GRADE SCHOOL MUSICAL - Trying to cash in on all the rage, this "prequel" features its entire soundtrack played on recorders. Hearing those kids toot out hits like "BINGO," "Camptown Races," "Frere Jacques," "Mary Had A Little Lamb," and "This Old Man" will make you finally remove Zamfir from your music rotation.

LEGO MY EGGO - You think making real waffles is a pain in the ass? Try this new cross-over toy experiment from LEGO and the breakfast barons. All of those extra pieces are actually waffle run-off, so don't drive yourself nuts for 13 hours trying to figure out what you did wrong. (I thought I was clever with this, but believe it or not, this shit is REAL!)

THOMAS THE TRAINWRECK - Thomas has been chugging along for years, but what if he hooked up with bad girls Gina Gas Tanker and Box Car Bertha. That jump to the wrong side of the tracks results in Thomas the Trainwreck, which is essentially the animated railroad version of the Spears family.

TRANSGENDER TRANSFORMERS -The Queer Eye guys and Tim Gunn design an exciting new line that turns toys from a manly monster semi truck with a huge stick shift into the Barbie Hot Tub Party Bus with just a few twists and turns. Sound the horn on the truck and it honks the theme from "The Crying Game."

BITCH & MOAN LEARNING KITCHEN - This toy is a sequel to Fisher-Price's popular Laugh and Learn Kitchen, which is supposed to brainwash your kids into thinking housework is fun (much like the toy vacuum cleaner, one of the suckiest toys ever). The Bitch & Moan 2-in-1 Learning Kitchen teaches the little ones early how to bitch and moan about whether the dishwasher has been loaded or unloaded, if the garbage has been taken out, or why there is beer in the smiley fridge's vegetable crisper drawer.

UKULELE HERO - So you've conquered Slash in Guitar Hero Legends of Rock and think you're the shit when it comes to video game guitar riffs? Try beating this game, beeyotch.
Better give yourself at least a year to master Tiny Tim's "Tiptoe Through The Tulips."

Pamela Anderson catches, releases Salmon

2007-12-17T18:59:00.000-08:00

Wow, big shocker news today - Pamela Anderson filed for divorce from that Rick Salmon guy after just two months. It does make you wonder why she threw him back so soon. She barely had him in the boat.

Maybe Salmon got busted swimming upstream. Or maybe he just went after something like a spinner or shiner and got his mouth all tore up, then tried to act like it was nothing when he got home...

Snapshot 2 - Here's a Nu One For You

2007-06-02T17:18:00.000-07:00

This furniture store in my historic St. Paul neighbor- hood is a real eye-catcher. It's a bummer it has been closed down since we moved nearby 5 years ago. Since "New" is only a three-letter word, I doubt the owners went with "Nu" to shorten the store's name.

It's all Greek to me. If their merchandise really lived up to the Nu name, chances are it was recycled frat house furniture. That means every item was injected to capacity with old beer farts, turning a Hide-A-Bed into a Nu Double Dutch Oven.

That also meant every piece had either been barfed on, peed on, or pooped on, not to mention all the countless drunken sexual acts, possibly including barnyard animals.

Like Nu I'm guessing was just their regular soiled goods line that came from non-Greek houses on and off campus. I don't have a clue who would want Like Nu over Nu. The stains aren't near as impressive in size, texture or lingering odor.

I assume the final nail in the business' coffin was when some fucking Nu guy had the hardly bright idea to have a zany black light sale one weekend to drum up business. But all it drummed up was a lot of previously unseen stains that would give a CSI investigator nightmares.

Now it's your turn: What special furniture might be on hand in this store? What departments might it boast? If you come up with enough ideas, maybe the owners will come out of retirement to steal them and re-open!

Saturday Snapshot 1 - Motel 7

2007-05-19T08:35:00.000-07:00

For your weekend viewing and discussion pleasure, I am unveiling a new weekly series in my blog where I will take photo(s) of area landmarks and post them here for your amusement. There is no shortage of this kind of thing around Minnesota. We're weirdos and we're proud of it.

On a trek back to NoDak, The Rockette and I stumbled across a motel along the way that caught our eyes: Motel 7 (which I'm assuming is one step up from Motel 6).

The marquee sign out front boasts Wi-Fi and HBO as well as 70 TV channels. If they would have said they had, say, 3 pop machines we would have so stayed there! But is that enough to fill those vacancies?

Motel 6's famous slogan is "We'll leave the light on for ya." My guess is Motel 7's would say "We'll leave the vibratin' bed runnin' for ya."

What slogan do you think would sell Motel 7? What amenities might it have that I forgot to mention?

Get your geek on

2007-05-14T05:53:00.000-07:00

All it took to rock the Rocky Road Scholar from hibernation was one sweet unsolicited email invitation. But why would anyone ask a 37-year-old, 340-pound married man to prom? Even something called Geek Prom?

Saturday's 2007 gala at the Science Museum in St. Paul marked Geek Prom's sixth year (second in the Twin Cities) and offered a chance for one and all over 18 to get their geek on!

But in the days leading up to the event, I still worried the email had to be a set-up. I was sure I would be greeted by some jailbait decoy holding a laundry basket, telling me to go wait in the kitchen and to help myself to the fresh pitcher of lemonade. Next thing you know NBC Dateline's Chris Hansen comes walking out with a TV crew asking me what the hell I'm doing there.

I'd try to tell him I'm there to go to Geek Prom. He'd scoff that I was trying to pass myself off as a geek when he has hard evidence that I'm only a nerd, dork or spaz at best, and that I am the latest perp in his new "To Catch A Wannabe Geek" series. I'd try to make a run for it only to be tasered in the front yard by the St. Paul Police and Ramsey County Sherriff's Departments.

My wife, The Rockette, assured me I could seal the Geek Prom deal because I still own several thousand comic books despite an almost constant sale on E-Bay of these childhood treasures. So I immediately invited The Rockette to be my date, since she never had the displeasure of going to an actual high school prom with me. We would travel via my 12-year-old piece-of-shit car (sounds just like high school!) and my mission for that evening would be to try and charm the pants off of her. And if that didn't work, try to Lucky Charm the pants off of her at breakfast.

I had the perfect attire to wear - A lime green sport coat with flourescent lapels and glittery sun and cactus decorative designs painstakingly made for me by a seamstress from a Fargo, N.D., trailer park.

Once we arrived at the event, I didn't feel overdressed. I blended right in with the train engineer, Darth Vader, the Nintendo freak, the Ninja, the pirate, and all the geeky girls.

One of the first chic geeks to catch my attention was that hottie from the Scooby Doo gang. No, not Daphne. Velma. Remember: I'm a geek.

It was nice Velma could take some time off from ghost chasing and solving mysteries to join the Geek Prom Committee. That gaggle of geeks did a fine job of taking this idea and running with it, plus it gave me another opportunity to wear my green jacket somewhere besides church.

I must admit while talking to Velma, I was overcome with the urge to knock her glasses off (gently and "accidentally", of course) just so I could watch her crawl around looking for them for a while, but my wife and two St. Paul police officers were standing a few steps away, so I refrained.

Fifteen minutes later, I spotted a lady with one of the most appetizing accessories I've ever laid eyes on. It looked just like a birthday cake, complete with the bulb-lit candles.

"I just love that hat," I said. "It looks delicious."

"Today's my birthday!" she giggled.

"Can I close my eyes, make a wish and blow you out?" I joked.

"No, but you can give me a kiss!" she said.

"I would love to lick your frosting, but I'm married. My wife is right over there ready to take our picture..."

I swear that jacket has geeky chick magnet super powers, but anyway, this lady's outfit took the cake for me - very clever. The only thing that would have made it better would if she would have come with a friend dressed as ice cream. That might have been enough to get me interested in a threesome.

After walking by cardboard cut-outs of Captain Picard and Spock, I met a real-life Star Trek security guard and warned him he would probably die that night.

"You know all the dudes wearing red ended up dead when they left the ship," I said.

"That's OK," he assured me. "I actually killed a guy for this outfit. He was on an away mission so that rule applied only to him. I just borrowed the suit for the prom."

He also boldy made his hair go where no Trekkie's had gone before with that Afalfa/Ed Grimley thing going. He also got my vote for most photogenic of the evening - check out that geeky pose!

Three beers later, a hazmat team had to be called in for an odor investigation. There were some complaints of some sort of hazardous gas by the cash bar. The Rockette pointed them in my direction, assuming the smell was one of my beer farts. Since there was no one dressed up as a dog nearby, I blamed it on Darth Vader, saying I overheard him mumble something about the "power of the dark side" and "a disturbance in the force" before the odor presented itself.

Later, I thought I ran into King Vitamin and was going to lodge a complaint on why his cereal and Quisp cereal are so hard if not impossible to find these days. What a geek I was. He was actually Eric Houston, the reigning Geek Prom King of 2006, there to relinquish his crown. He still posed for a picture with me despite my lack of celebrity identification skillz.

I wasn't totally off in that department though as a few moments later I spotted Ross Raihala, pop music writer for the Pioneer Press. Since I've lived under a rock much of the last 8 months, Ross' writings have kept me in tune with the local music scene, so I thanked him for that.

I also had the pleasure to meet Rex Sorgatz, of MNSpeak fame. Rex added my blog to MNSpeak's aggregator a couple of years ago and exposed my attempts at humor writing to a wider audience, so it was a pleasure to finally meet him in person. He's a very funny guy.

"I didn't really need to dress up because I work for Microsoft," he said. "I figure that's geeky enough."

Fair and Partly Cloudy

2006-09-03T08:17:00.000-07:00

The Minnesota State Fair always marvels me at how many different foods can be served on a stick. The Fair vendors have proved that stick food shouldn't be exclusive to corn dogs and ice cream bars, putting everything from pork chops to twinkies on a stick. Even hotdish (with cream of mushroom soup dipping sauce) was on the stick menu this year!

I'm still waiting for my ultimate food on a stick: The Old Country Buffet on a yardstick. I have no doubt it would cost $99, but I'd probably still buy it to try it.

I was accompanied by The Rockette, who goes by the handle My Fair Lady this time of year. Our first stop was the animal barns, where she got a great pic of this pig enjoying a tasty treat from what appears to be some sort of beer bong. No wonder brats, bacon, pork chops and sausage all taste so damn good!

This display quickly caught my eye as we walked further into the swine barn. A sign boasted of the winner of the "Minnesota's largest boar contest."

Granted, this 1,040-pound specimen named Corn Dog was no little piggy. However, I do distinctly remember an argument about 10 years ago, when Mom told Dad he was the "biggest boar in Minnesota." So fair officials may have to prove to Mom what the rules are here. If it is simply referring to the heaviest male pig, that's one thing. But she was pretty convinced Dad was the "biggest boar" back then. Hopefully she's forgiven Dad by now or she might even allow the fair to throw him in a pen for a few days.

My Fair Lady snapped this beautiful shot of a billy goat in mid chew. He was pretty vocal, and sounded just like Jim Brewer from Saturday Night Live.

But life at the fair has taken its toll. All the bright lights and attention forced him to spiral down a black hole. As you can see in the background, this billy goat is a total addict, a hay crack whore.

At first, I thought this may have been Mother Goose serving time behind bars ala Martha Stewart for insider trading of golden eggs.

Instead, it ended up being the AFLAC mascot, who was put in the slammer for insurance fraud. Seems he was replacing windshields of cars he shit on for free to avoid multiple small claims court cases.

There were no Trix nearby, so I figured it was safe to assume this rabbit was probably detained by Comcast cable company and all the satellite dish networks.

With ears like his, all you'd have to do is put Mr. Rabbit on top of your TV and run a coaxil cable up his ass. Next thing you know, you'd have 812 channels for the cost of a few bags of carrots each month. It's the secret they don't want getting out.

The highlight of this year's trip was that I actually talked My Fair Lady into attending a freak show. These used to be at the Minnesota State Fair back in the 1980s and featured the likes of Lobster Boy, a legit circus sideshow act.

I was totally lured in by the Worlds of Wonder stage barker bragging they had the last living munchkin from the Wizard of Oz on stage. He was a very elderly little person and his voice sounded like he had been making out with a helium balloon machine, so they had me hook, line and sinker to cough up $9 for My Fair Lady and I to enter the curiousity tent.

Times have changed. The advertising bragged of seeing acts like the Electro Girl, Cobra Girl, a four-legged woman and a live woman with no head. It was all a load of crap.

Maybe it would have been more believable if they had changed girls playing the parts more often. When Electro Girl appeared a minute later as Spidora, it takes some of the fun out of it. Spidora had the head of a real woman, but the body was a obviously stuffed animal. Despite my disappointment, I still wanted to sleep with her (I think because she was half stuffed animal, not for freaky spider sex).

But there were a couple of legit acts, including a tiny contortionist who serpentined her way around a box riddled with saw blades. The barker said "anyone who wants to see proof that a contortionist isn't just a woman who can wrap her ankles around her ears, pay $1 for a closer look." I paid the buck with about 50 other men, all of us knowing no matter what we saw in that box, we would still view contortionists as women who can wrap their ankles around their ears.

There was a real sword swallower that was worth the price of admission. She really did swallow a 2-foot long blade, prompting the teenage hormone next to me to say "I'll give her something to swallow."

"Yeah, but I doubt she's going to feel it in the pit of her stomach like that sword," I told him. "And I also doubt she'll ask a volunteer from the crowd to pull you back out."

Having completely entertained and embarrassed My Fair Lady for another year, it was time to go. On the way out, we walked by a free ride called "The Great Safety Adventure." We didn't go on it, but it was all about educating kids about safety and being super safe.

It was presented by Lowe's, so I imagine it warns kids to not staple their nuts to drywall or drill new assholes in their siblings with power tools. We didn't go in for a closer look, but did have the person taking tickets scratching his head why this safety attraction was so funny.

Scratch and sniff

2006-08-13T11:42:00.000-07:00

Leave it to me to have air travel booked for Thursday. When I arrived at the Hartford airport that morning, I'd been living under a work rock for 48 hours and hadn't even heard the news that morning about the terrorist plot from London.

My journey back to the Twin Cities was scheduled to take off at 6:07 AM, and I arrived at the airport about 4:45. That seemed like plenty of time until I reached the security screening checkpoint. The process seemed to be going a lot slower than usual.

As my spot in the line got closer to the entry of the checkpoint, I noticed a small landfill forming - mostly beverages. Then I heard a frail older security employee rasping, as if he'd repeated the same sentence a million times, "Absolutely no liquids allowed in carry-on baggage."

The $2 bottle of water I had just bought 15 minutes ago was obviously going to be my first lost item. I chugged about half of it and threw the rest on the landfill pile, which also welcomed the 10-pack of Juicy Juice from the mom and kid in front of me.

We proceeded into the next checkpoint area, where there was heavier screening than normal, including hand searching of all carry-on bags. I started to think if I had any other liquids in my duffel bag I may have not thought of as I watched it disappear into the X-Ray machine.

"I don't know how my boy's going to make it to Miami with no juice," the Juicy Juice Momma sighed to me. "He's always thirsty. If he don't get juice, he whines worse than his daddy for a beer after mowin' the lawn."

"You think you have problems," the gabby rich bitch in front of her interrupted. "They want to take away my expensive rain forest shampoo. You can only get it in Ecuador..."

She babbled some bullshit about how local villagers painstakingly collect fresh beehive honey, dew from banana leaves and rain forest trees, the finest coconut milk, salamander saliva, and butterfly sweat before delicately mixing it with local fruits and herbs. OK, so I made up the salamander saliva and butterfly sweat, but was this the airport security screening line, or the lead-in for some new Nick Chavez QVC Today's Special Value?

"That sucks they took it away because it costs about $60 down there, which is like a year's salary to many locals," she bragged. "Don't let their hard work go to waste. You better go ahead and smell me now that you have the chance."

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Go ahead, smell me," she whispered, leaning her head towards my nose. "I know you want to. Smell me."

"Smell you? I hardly even know you," I replied.

She kept moving her head in unison with my retreating nose as if she was a cobra being charmed by a flute.

"No, I'm fine, really," I said, trying to stretch my neck to giraffe-like proportions.

What did she think we were - St. Bernards meeting for the first time? She wasn't exactly asking me to sniff her ass to say hello, but human beings generally don't throw body parts around and ask others to snort them like a line of cocaine.

"I gotta little itch right here," she pointed to the top of her scalp. "Maybe you can scratch, then sniff. Get it? Like the stickers!"

If the creepy conversation wasn't enough, she had a bushel of her bleach-blonde straw in her hand, pulling it towards my nose. She didn't need to practically pull her hair out for me to get a whiff. Everyone in line had already noticed the odor coming off her mophead.

"It's invigorating, isn't it?" she squeaked. "My hair smells just like the rain forest."

If the rain forest smells like toucan taint, why the fuck are we trying to save it? Granted, I've never buried my sniffer into the crotch of that colorful bird, but her hair definitely smelled like bird shit blended with notes of Froot Loops.

A security officer rescued me from the Toucan Samantha trainwreck to inform me he needed to search my toiletries bag. He emptied about half of it, then apologized for taking my toothpaste, mouthwash and shampoo.

"That's OK," I said. "I stole all of those things from the hotel room anyway. I know the rules now, so next time I'll just take the shower cap and the shoeshine rag."

The items that they were confiscating got my wheels turning as to what this new terrorist threat was. Has Al Qaeda turned to MacGyver DVDs to try and figure out newer and more inventive ways to attack us?

"Please, kiddo, you can't take that!" the 60-something playboy next to me pleaded to another security officer. "That cost me $75!"

The item in question was a mammoth cologne bottle, roughly the size of a 1.75-litre party jug of whiskey. I had no idea they had a perfume counter at Costco.

"Please let me keep my smelly sauce," Old Spice begged. " I have a date with Mildred tonight and when I wear that stuff, she's the clay and I'm the sculptor."

Again, way too much information. The thought of Old Spice molding Mildred ranked right up there with watching Anna Nicole Smith seduce that cadaver; witnessing Hugh Hefner cavorting with those three groupies who are young enough to be his great granddaughters; or viewing that pottery porn scene from Ghost.

But I believed Old Spice. If a bottle that big is his travel cologne, he probably bathes in smelly sauce before his dates with Mildred. Then when Old Spice hugs her, it's probably as if he's smothering her with an ether rag. No wonder he always gets to iron out poor Mildred's wrinkles.

A few minutes later, they cleared me through security. My carry-on bag was a little lighter, but I was on my way back to St. Paul after all.

"My, aren't you festive today," the stewardess sneered when I entered the plane.

I had no clue what she was talking about, but was paranoid I had somehow absorbed a lethal cocktail of scents from Toucan Samantha and Old Spice. The Rockette clued me in when I got home.

"Ha! You wore a bright orange polo shirt today and the terror threat was orange," The Rockette giggled. "Your color coordination was a noble public service. Nice move, honey."

She suggested that next time I wear camoflauge so I blend in better. The Rockette thought the bright orange shirt may have also acted as a weirdo porch light, attracting moths like Toucan Samantha and Old Spice.

Juicy, Not Fruit

2006-08-07T16:38:00.000-07:00

Like any young kid, I was full of questions for my parents to answer. Why this. Why that. I'll have to admit, Dad had the most unique answers of any father I've ever heard.

"Dad, which came first - the egg or the chicken?" I'd ask.

"The rooster," Dad would chuckle.

Dad's answers were brief and to the point. Sometimes his actions spoke louder than words.

Like the time he was digging a huge hole to install a swimming pool at our house in Virginia. I noticed a gigantic beetle, probably the size of a bandicoot, staggering across the cement.

"What kind of bug is that?" I asked, lying on my stomach, my face inches away from the mother of all insects.

Dad took a break from his digging, slung his 25-pound sledgehammer across his shoulder and looked down for a moment. He grinned, then reared back with the hammer, slamming it down on the bug.

The beetle splattered under the fury of Dad's hammer, sending a tidal wave of juicy bug inards all over my face.

"A dead one," Dad muttered before realizing he had vandalized my face with bug juice.

I let out a blood-curdling scream that was probably heard for miles and began to grope blindly at the air, my eyes covered with Beetlejuice.

Dad pulled out his hankerchief and wallet simultaneously, dropping dollar bills while trying frantically to wipe all that buggy goodness off my face.

"Don't tell Mom about this. Don't tell Mom," he pleaded.

It was too late. A mother knows her child's cry and she was on the scene in seconds. Dad was busted and I was $13 richer, so in the end the traumatic incident didn't bug me.

After that, I didn't ask Dad too many questions. With him, I figured I was better off finding answers myself.

Rock Hard

2006-07-29T07:29:00.000-07:00

So Paris Hilton says she's going to give up sex for one year. Big deal. In my late 20s, I gave it up for 4.

Not by choice, but hey, I still gave it up. Unlike Paris, I hadn't walked away from a Hilton-esque sex life. There were no best-selling videotapes like One Night in Paris. Alas, the best I could have offered would have been Rocky Mountin' High available only on Beta.

I'm not surprised I had such a long dry spell. Maybe it was because Mom put me between a rock and a hard place when it came to sex education.

In fourth grade, I started to realize the girls in my class were losing their cooties. I also noticed that I was getting more frequent hard-ons, especially in the morning.

The latter was a bit concerning. The only time a body part had ever swelled up that big was when I broke my wrist. I had fallen off my bike and hit my nuts on the crossbar a few times, but would this make my ding dong swell up every day for 14 months? Something was not adding up here.

Dad was out of town, but I couldn't dick around until he got back home. I needed to know the answers to my questions immediately. Mom didn't have a penis, but she was swiftly thrown under a hot light for questioning. My theory that the hard-on served as a sort of "kick-stand" so boys wouldn't accidentally roll out of bed was shot down immediately by Mom.

She assured me morning wood was not a medical emergency, a safety feature for boys, or extra pee that had somehow lost its way. It was the foundation of baby-making.

"Wow, so the stork doesn't bring babies?" I asked.

"No, that's just a story we use until you're old enough to understand where they really come from," Mom chuckled, before rattling off a brief scientific explanation of the birds and the bees.

"So babies come from hard-ons?" I asked, still confused.

"Yes, but it's not that simple..." Mom said.

"What about a stork with a hard on?" I interrupted. "Then can he bring a baby?"

Mom pondered this one for a moment, but then admitted that as long as the stork had a stiffy, a baby would be sure to follow.

"That's how it all starts," Mom beamed. "First of all, before anything happens, the penis has to be hard."

"How hard?" I asked.

"Rock hard," Mom said. "It has to be rock hard or nothing works."

From that day forward, I thought if my penis didn't feel like a slab of granite, I would never become a father. This was instantly troubling. I wasn't impotent, and I'd had at least as many hard-ons as chicken pox to that point of my life. But not one had been "rock hard." I calmed myself by thinking that surely by the time I was 14 or 15, I would get these rock hard ons, and at that moment I was just too young.

When I was a freshman in high school, I still hadn't been rock hard. Sure, I had been close. I'd been as hard as a ridiculously overstarched shirt. I was a little concerned, but I figured I was a late bloomer. Maybe another wave of puberty would hit me and I would be rock hard in no time.

High school graduation came and went, but I still had not been rock hard. I had been as hard as Play-Doh that had been left out without the cap on the container, but still not quite rock hard. I had come a long way since the starched shirt days, though.

I was starting to feel a little insecure about my erections at this point. I was in my sexual prime, so it was hard almost 24 hours a day, 7 days a week at this point. But I couldn't honestly say it was rock hard. I worried that I might be at the peak of hardness. The closest I had gotten to rock hard was adobe. But my geology professor and everyone else knew that this wasn't really hard rock, it was just dried-up mud.

What was I going to do? I was 19 and still had not been rock hard. I wondered if I'd ever procreate.

A few years later, a girlfriend told me she was pregnant. I doubted it was mine from the start. After all, I had only been as hard as petrified wood at best when we had sex. For about a week we were sweating bullets, but it turned out she wasn't pregnant.

"Ha! See?!" I told her. "You're lucky I had not been rock hard or we'd be shopping for baby clothes right now!"

We broke up a couple of months later and then I went into that 4-year sexual drought, becoming a born-again virgin.

OK, I didn't give up getting frisky willingly for a pre-determined time like Paris Hilton claims she is going to do. I made a "deal" with myself I wouldn't have sex again until I met the woman I wanted to marry. I didn't think it would take 4 years to find The Rockette. No lovin' for 48 months was tough.

After that I was rock hard.

Jailhouse Rocky, Part 3

2006-07-16T07:22:00.000-07:00

I longed to be a chick magnet back in 1991, but alas, I was more of a cop magnet. I must have smelled like dozens of donuts or something.

I had just been thrown in jail for beer in the park the previous summer. Now four short months later, I would soon wonder if I was being "profiled" - The police now targeting husky smartass 20-something white kids. Bastards.

It was the night before Homecoming at North Dakota State Univeristy. Not a creature was stirring that Friday night at the fraternity, not even a mouse. Really. Everyone was out at the bars. The "pre-party" really only started about 1 or 2 AM.

I had just gotten off work from the newspaper and was enjoying a couple of cool ones with my buddy Grant, who also had just arrived back at the house from his work shift. Soon, we were joined by three other poor bastards who were trying to put themselves through school. We were just hanging out, shooting the breeze, wondering how many levels of drunkeness we were behind the throng of people who would soon be coming home from the bars.

Then, out of nowhere, a Fargo police cruiser screeched to a halt in front of our fraternity house. The officer inside shone a spotlight on us for about 2 seconds, then pulled over on a side street and turned on his cherries.

The officer walked up to the front porch cautiously, one hand firmly gripping a huge flashlight he was shining on us and the other firmly on his holstered revolver. Grant jokingly asked if this was about that panty raid 3 years ago.

"All right, what's going on here?" the officer barked.

"Uhhh, we're just hanging out having a couple of beers," I said. "We all just got off work and are winding down."

"IDs now!" he shouted.

"Why?" Grant asked.

"Because I don't think any of you are old enough to drink, that's why!" he snapped.

This was amusing because I was the young pup of the group at 22. The rest of the guys ranged between 23 and 25. After showing our proof of age, we kind of thought that would be the end of it, so we kept on drinking and visiting.

Suddenly, the cop asked who lived at the fraternity. Out of the five of us, only Grant and I did. He asked us to come back to the squad car and chat for a bit. We did, thinking nothing of it. But the next thing you know, he's driving away with us in the backseat.

"What did we do?" Grant asked. "Why have we been arrested?"

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Just cooperate and everything will be fine."

"But what are we being arrested for?" I asked.

"Don't make this difficult," he said. "Let's just say that this is life in the fastlane."

"What the fuck?" Grant, who was even more outspoken than me, said. "What's with this Dirty Harry bullshit?!"

Dirty Harry drags us into the Cass County jail about 5 minutes later. We announced to the booking area that we've been arrested, but haven't been read our rights or told what we've been arrested for.

A supervisor pulled Dirty Harry into a small office that has a window. We couldn't hear what the superior officer was telling Dirty Harry, but it was obvious he was getting his ass chewed sideways. When Dirty Harry emerged from his meeting, he informed us we were going down for "loud party ordinance."

"Loud party? There were five of us and we didn't even have a radio on, you fucking pelican," Grant said. "What a bunch of bullshit!"

"Tell it to the judge," Dirty Harry smirked.

Dirty Harry was joined by a red-haired deputy, Carrot Top, to book us. He was just as big an asshole as Dirty Harry. Grant and I made a lot of "ooo" and "aahhh" noises while we were being frisked as if we were watching breath-taking stunts at a circus.

"Rocky, don't let Carrot Top get to third base with you," Grant said. "Tell him you don't go that far on the first date."

Carrot Top was ready to frisk my lower extremities at this point. He told me to "spread 'em," but I only opened my legs a few inches. He repeatedly told me to spread 'em, but I would only comply with an inch or two at a time. Finally, Carrot Top started trying to kick my legs apart. But I had my heels dug into that fucking concrete. Carrot Top was about half my size and just couldn't get them apart. The whole booking area was laughing because he was getting very flustered.

"Is that gum in your mouth, son?" Carrot Top asked. "You need to spit that out now."

"What?!" I asked. "It's just juicy fruit."

"I said spit it out, kid," he yelled. "Remove the gum, now!"

"Why?" I asked, spitting the gum into his hand. "Do you think I'm fucking MacGyver or something and am going to build a bomb with my wad of gum and a toilet paper tube?"

As we were being led into the jail area, Grant and I could hear dozens of abortion protesters who were arrested earlier that day singing "Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore." Grant and I joined in the singing, but were doing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" in a round. This got the abortion protesters riled up, so Carrot Top marched us down to our own private wing where we could only amuse ourselves.

No sooner was Grant in his cell (they separated us), then he kind of went nuts. He threw three rolls of toilet paper into his shitter and flushed it about six times, flooding our wing. I wasn't that bold, so I just grabbed a tin cup and started rattling on the bars of my cell while singing "Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen..."

"Hey, Rocky," Grant said after he spotted an open phone book about 10-12 feet away on a table in the cell wing's common area, "watch this shit!"

He proceeded to climb to the top rung of horizontal bars in his cell, dropped his pants to his knees, and started pissing on the phone book. It was an impressive stream, similar to that of a fire hose. It looked like he had the talent to piss over a bus - the long way - if he would have wanted to. Anyway, a minute later, the phone book was sporting a more golden hue.

"Now they're really the yellow pages!" he screeched.

"Yeah, but instead of your fingers, you let your dick do the walking," I joked.

Carrot Top heard all the hysterical laughing and ruckus over this and returned to our cell area. Needless to say, he flipped when he saw the toilet had flooded. He was absolutely horrified when he saw the sopping yellower pages.

"You sick sonuvabitches," he snarled, re-checking our cell doors to make sure they were secure. "I don't know how the hell you did it, but I know one of you fuckers got out and pissed on it!"

About 20 minutes later, Carrot Top delivered the news that a fraternity alumnus had posted a $2,000 check to spring us both out of jail (the rich dude also took us out to eat at Taco John's later). I was released immediately, but Grant was detained until he mopped up the floor from his flooded toilet and threw away the soiled phone book.

We actually had to go to court over the "charges." We were facing up to $1,500 fines and 90 days in jail over this party ordinance (punishment usually reserved for those throwing a kegger for hundreds of people). Luckily, the best attorney (he's not my cousin, but I'll call him Vinny) in the state happened to be an alumnus of our fraternity and took the case for free (and for fun).

He got the case thrown out in about 5-10 minutes. Dirty Harry was the only person to take the stand.

"How far was the porch from the street?" Vinny asked.

"Ummmm, I'm not sure, 20-25 feet?" Dirty Harry replied.

"No, it's 58 yards, I measured it," Vinny said. "So, tell me officer, from a distance of 58 yards in the dark, you thought these young men were underage drinkers?"

"Ummm, yes," Dirty Harry said.

"Did you see bloodshot eyes from that distance?" Vinny asked.

"No," Dirty Harry said sheepishly.

"And after they provided proof they were old enough, why were they arrested?" Vinny asked.

"Because they just kept drinking and talking," Dirty Harry said, his teeth grinding.

"Hmmmm, these legal age men kept drinking on the porch of their house after showing you they had the right to do so," Vinny said. "Isn't the real reason you brought Grant and Rocky to jail that night because they didn't pass your personal attitude test. Which, I might add, no one probably passes. Would you call it good police work to haul in two innocent men for that?"

Our attorney then told the judge about how we were brought in without being read our rights or told why were were being arrested, then detained for 2 hours on a bogus charge. We had 5 witnesses, including neighbors, ready to testify on our behalf that there was no loud party going on that night. But Dirty Harry's testimony was all we needed. The judge had heard enough.

"I see you young men got a little out of hand while in custody," the judge said, reading over our 5-page police report (seriously, it was that long). "Normally this kind of behavior would only get you in more trouble. But under the circumstances that you felt you were being held for no reason, I will look past it today. I dismiss all charges against the defendants."

That was great, but the best part of being thrown in jail twice? That made me the FIRST and SECOND grandchild to be arrested.

Jailhouse Rocky, Part 2

2006-07-11T19:06:00.000-07:00

If I would have known I was going to jail that sunny July day in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, I would have done something zany like bust the tops off of parking meters or trade stocks for Martha Stewart. That just sounds so much better than the beer-related offense I was busted for.

No, it wasn't a DUI. Not public drunkeness. Not even minor in possession. I went to the slammer for beer in the park back in 1991. The worst part of it? It was my first beer that day and I didn't even get to finish it.

I had just arrived in Detroit Lakes with a couple of friends. The atmosphere was like spring break, with lots of bikini-clad girls and booze. No sooner had we stepped out of the car when we cracked our first beers. A big day of fun in the sun was ahead, so I thought I better empty my "cargo hold" before I got down to some serious partying.

I trotted over to a bathroom a half block away in a small park. On the way back, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was Barney Fife's stunt double. He glared down at my beverage.

"Is that beer in that container?" he asked. "Because if it is, you're going to have to come over to the car with me."

I didn't have a panic attack yet. This was the same guy who let some Girl Gone Wild off earlier from an obvious DUI because she flashed him. I wasn't drunk enough to expose myself to get out of whatever trouble I was in, but I had seen people walking around with open containers all day in clear view of the police. I figured they just thought I was underage. Once I proved I was legal, I'd be on my way because people were passing by the cop car, alcoholic beverages in plain sight, pointing at me and laughing.

I waved back at them laughing and gave Barney my ID. I told him there was no problem because I was legal drinking age despite my boyish looks.

"Well, actually, there is a problem," he said. "We have a city ordinance here in Detroit Lakes. It's illegal to have beer in the park or on the beach."

"Really? Wow, I would have never guessed with everyone walking around with their drinks," I replied. "Do you think you could just give me a warning? This is my first time in town. Sorry, I had no clue it was illegal."

"Yeah, right," Barney said. "Give me a break, Mr. Liar. You're from Fargo, so you've been here before. Probably every weekend. That's why you're going downtown."

"I'm going to jail for having a beer in the park?" I asked, utterly stunned.

"That's right," he said. "In Fargo, maybe they let you big city boys get away with things like murder and arson. But we have rules here in Detroit Lakes."

OK, first of all, I was no killer. Just because I was from Fargo didn't mean I regularly ran my victims through a wood chipper. I was no arsonist either, unless you count lighting farts while camping with friends when I was 12. Second, I wasn't a big city boy. Fargo didn't even have 75,000 people. Third, it really was my first time in Detroit Lakes. Usually I was too drunk to leave Fargo. Fourth, Detroit Lakes was too Mayberry to have a downtown. Fifth, this fucker was actually driving away with me in the backseat.

I was going to jail. For beer in the park. What a horseshit reason. I felt so ashamed. Not necessarily for going to jail, but for going to jail over such a paltry offense. The other inmates would tease me to no end over that.

"Isn't the the real reason I'm going to jail is because I'm wearing Bermuda shorts and not a string bikini," I snapped back at Barney. "If I would have showed you some ass, maybe you would have let me off a DUI like that chick I saw you pull over earlier."

"That's enough, college boy!" he screamed. "There's more to you than meets the eye. I've been on the force four months and have been trained to spot the bad guys. Then I nail 'em like a hammer."

"Do not pass go, do not collect $200, go directly to jail," I said hysterically in the backseat. "I bet if I owned all the railroads and a couple of hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place, we could work out some sort of deal. But I don't even have a house on Mediterreanean, so I'm shit out of luck!"

Barney grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the booking area. He barked at me to empty my pockets, which I did. My only possessions were $37, far short of the $110 needed to post bail, and one of those 3-inch money clips that had a tiny flip out nail file on one side and a mini knife on the other.

"We have a knife here!" Barney announced to the room, holding the blade in the air as if he was displaying a Wesley Snipes' movie prop. "Yep, this guy was hiding a knife. I need to look up the rules and see if this qualifies as a concealed weapon."

"Weapon?" I laughed, snatching it back. "This thing couldn't even cut warm butter..."
To demonstrate, I decided to show him it couldn't even break my skin by running it lightly over my finger. Oops, I gave myself a little slice. I never knew I was a cutter.

Barney grabbed the "knife" and pushed me toward a wall. He told me to "spread them." I was hoping I wouldn't hear that phrase again after meeting my cellmate.

"OK, you're clean," he said, finishing his frisking. "Turn around and back up against the wall. How tall are you?"

"Uh, about 6-foot-4," I said.

"Liar!" he screeched. "You're only 6-3 and a half. The measuring stick is right behind you. Don't lie to me again during questioning."

Have you been arrested before? No. Do you have any outstanding warrants for you? No. Do you have any scars or tattoos? Yes and yes.

My scars, obtained in a 3-wheeler accident with a barbed wire fence 8 years earlier made my left upper arm and neck look pretty rugged. Barney was convinced the scars were a results of my life of crime.

"A barbed wire fence wouldn't cut you up like that," Barney said. "They look like scars from something bigger. Like a knife fight. I have a feeling you are bigtime.

"Are you in a gang?"

"Oh, yeah," I joked. "The Apple Dumpling Gang."

"Not funny," he said. "What about your tattoo on your back? I noticed it's blue. Did you get it when you joined your gang?"
It was a tattoo of the Schlitz Malt Liqour Bull, but this dumb ass really thought I was a Crip or something. My gang was more like something Rascal Flatts would sing about.

Next I was told to strip, and Barney wasn't holding any $1 bills. I started to wonder if this was when the real fun was about to start: Was I on the brink of a cavity search? Barney had pulled so many crazy accusations out of his ass, I wondered when he'd start looking in mine.

"You better take this stuff," he said, handing me a jumpsuit, bedroll and toiletries. "Take a shower and get changed. I have a feeling you're going to be here a long time."

My prison Prada was a white, sleeveless, v-neck jumpsuit. It read "Becker County Jail" in huge letters on the back. I totally wanted to steal it. As I finished getting dressed, two deputies about my size strolled up. Barney thanked them for coming and told them he was scared to take me upstairs in the elevator alone, so he called for backup.

"Oh, please, the worst thing I've ever done in an elevator is fart," I complained. "You think I'm going to jump the three of you in an elevator inside a jail full of police? Just so I don't have to face that beer in the park bullshit? My God! You're mind is more fucked up than Marlon Brando's in Apocolypse Now."

"Yeah, beer in the park," Barney said sarcastically. "I'm sure when your prints and mug get run through all the databases for the FBI, CIA, DEA and ATF, that's all that will come back. You're not fooling anybody, Cool Hand Luke. I know a criminal when I see one. You may not be on the FBI's 10 most wanted, but I know you're on somebody's list"

Usually I'm a pretty patient Teddy Bear, but I was really pissed when Barney decided to cuff my ankles and wrists with these big-ass chains. I guess I should have considered myself lucky that he didn't muzzle me and cart me around like Hannibal. I just gritted my teeth and must have looked like a raging lunatic at this point.

The timing for that was perfect. The elevator reached its floor and the door opened. Here I am, 6-4 (OK, 6-3 and a half), 275 pounds, with all my nasty scars and Crip/Schiltz Malt Liqour Bull tattoo hanging out. I'm visibly furious, being marched out in the general population garb, shackled, escorted by three deputies. I actually heard gasps and whimpers as I was led down the narrow hallway with cells on each side.

I glared in them and saw mostly teenage boys clad in their swimming trunks. I could see the fear in their eyes. They were worried I was window shopping for a new bitch.
At the end of the hall, I was let into a dark cell. I thought I might have the place to myself until out of the shadows walked the meanest dude I'd ever laid eyes on. He had grizzly long hair, a tattered beard and snaggleteeth.

"My name's Thor!" he growled.

"Like the Thunder God, right?" I replied.

We hit it off right away. We started playing cards for cigarettes. I was unbeatable, but unfortunately I didn't smoke. Thor also regaled me with tales about what pricks the cops were, how he didn't care for Dolly Parton's music but loved her tits, and the stories behind his 87 various scars and tattoos.

Soon, we gained another cellmate. He was 15, weighed about 120 and was soaking wet, I'm not sure from the lake or pissing himself. He was shivering either from cold or fright.

"Here kid," I said, offering him my blanket. "You can use this to warm up."
He turned white as a sheet and immediately pressed himself against the wall to protect his ass hymen from Thor and me. I asked Thor about Dolly Parton's boobs to try and lighten the mood and convince our new cellmate we weren't interested in prison rape.

Finally I was given my one phone call to arrange for my release. Unfortunately, I couldn't call my friends because I did not know where they were and no one had cell phones at the time (I found out later they thought I had hooked up with an ex-girlfriend). So I had to call my Dad.

"Oh, no, it's not a DUI, is it?" Dad asked as soon as he heard me say jail.

"No, much worse," I said. "I've been in the slammer 14 hours for beer in the park."

Dad told me not to worry, he'd drive up and bail me out in a couple of hours. He also said if beer in the park was that big of an offense, half the family would currently be serving a life sentence.

When I got back to the cell, our inmate count had increased to six. Thor was giving the group a class on how to roll your jail mattress on one end to make up for the missing pillow.

Before I knew it, breakfast was being served. We got french toast (which was regular toast served with maple syrup), a small army helmet full of Cheerios and a glass of rust juice.

I spent 18 hours in the bighouse for beer in the park, roughly an hour for each ounce of beer I had consumed that day. My release was bittersweet, as I didn't get to participate in any legendary incarcerated activities. Not just lifting weights, making license plates, or starting a prison riot. Better stuff like eating 50 hard-boiled eggs, playing for the Mean Machine football team against the guards, or blaring opera music over the yard loudspeaker.

I vented my lingering anger of being cherry picked out of the bunch for the offense to Dad on the way home. He laughed when I told him the original plan was to party and maybe get laid.

"Don't feel bad," he said. "You can still tell your friends you got screwed last night. Because you pretty much did."

Stay tuned for Part 3, when I go back to the bighouse a few years later. I'm such a jailbird!

Jailhouse Rocky, Part 1

2006-06-30T19:09:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in a while, but don't worry I haven't been in prison. Instead, I was sentenced to 30 days hard labor by my boss at work. It was our busiest time of year, and being a new inmate, I wasn't about to argue with the warden. I was "paroled" June 30 for good behavior.

Now, to repay my debt to society (a.k.a. my faithful and patient readers), I sentence myself to hard labor on this blog to win you back. I figured a fitting topic would be a three-part thriller about my time behind bars.

One of my relatives has this complex that her kids be "the first" to do just about anything. Maybe she's insecure that my Mom churned out the first and second grandchildren and has been on a payback mission ever since to make sure her family always finishes first in any other category she can think of.

Every time we see her, she points out all the blue ribbon accomplishments by her offspring as if we're in the livestock pen at the State Fair.

We'd have to listen to her cluck "Do you know Sparky has a paper route? He's the first grandchild to have a paper route - or a job for that matter!" and "We pierced Penelope's ears a second time. She's the first grandchild to have more than one piercing on each ear!"

Needless to say, this grew old incredibly fast. I think I may have been the first grandchild who felt like duct taping this woman's mouth shut and rolling her up in a throw rug, but I think I have about a dozen cousins who would argue that point.

When the rankings for normal behaviors were exhausted, it eventually regressed into weirder things like bragging about whose child was the first to have broken bones, mumps, or other ailments. I wanted to tell her I was the first grandchild to shit my pants, but my sister Bubbles held that honor.

You'd figure this behavior would diminish as we kids got older, but it didn't. It just carried over into adult situations like "Penelope is getting married next summer, isn't that something? She'll be the first grandchild to be married" or "Sparky just graduated from college, he's the first grandchild to do that you know!"

This was good news that we liked to hear, but the continued tack-ons about how they ranked first on the family tree in that subject was mind numbing. I wondered what first would spew out of her mouth next.

"Sparky was injured in a freak lawn mower accident last weekend," she'd sob before breaking into an enthusiastic smile. "But, hey, on the bright side, he's the first grandchild amputee!"

At a family reunion about 15 years ago, she had the floor running down the first-place statistics as usual. The only blue ribbon I cared about that night was the cold Pabst I was chugging by the bar. After hearing about 21 years worth of this bullshit, I decided it was time to throw some firsts back in her face to finally shut her up.

"Oh, yeah? Well, a month ago I was thrown in jail," I interrupted. "Isn't that something? Hey, I guess that makes me the first grandchild to get arrested!"

"You mean in Monopoly, right," she said, hands wringing, worried that her kids might have to settle for being the second, even in a slightly shameful event.

"No, I'm talking the real thing - 18 hours in the county jail," I bragged. "Heck, if I had been there just a bit longer, I probably could have had my own bitch. And that would have made me the first grandchild to have my own bitch, too!"

For the first time in two decades, this lady was speechless. And I'm sure I don't have to tell you I was the first grandchild to accomplish that feat.

But now I had everyone's attention at the reunion and had to come clean with my "criminal" escapades...

To be continued in Part 2

Alice in Wonderland

2006-05-31T18:18:00.000-07:00

The Rockette and I are both from North Dakota, so she was doing some pretty high kicks when she heard the news from Alice. The town, not some lady. She called me on a business trip to tell me the little speck 40 miles west of Fargo actually gave someone famous the keys to the "city" a couple of weeks ago.

Naturally, I assumed it had to be Linda Lavin. No, stow that idea.

Even better, give them to Ann B. Davis. She would bake two cakes for the town - one for if it gave her the keys to the city, and one if it changed its mind, told her to go fuck herself, and go bowling with Sam the butcher instead. The Rockette told me I was way off. It didn't make sense. What other Alice was there?

There's not even a need for keys to Alice. I'm sure all the doors are unlocked anyway. The only things in town are a grain elevator and a bar, but I suppose the keys to a city is still a pretty cool honor. Not to mention much needed publicity for tiny North Dakota towns like Alice, population 60.

I was out of Alice guesses, so The Rockette laid it on me. The keys to the city went to Alice Cooper. Whoa! That sounded crazier than Thompson giving its keys to the Thompson Twins, then screwing up the ceremony by making only two keys.

It's hard to picture old farm folk in overalls and John Deere hats, their eyes smeared with freaky black eye shadow, singing along to Cooper's "Poison" and "School's Out For Summer." I'd have an easier time believing Whitman gave its keys to Slim.

Then I remembered I was a country kid who liked listening to Motley Crue, Poison, KISS, Van Halen, and Firehouse. But I grew up in Bismarck. We couldn't very well give our keys to a jelly donut.

The Rockette told me an Alice city official was a fan and sent an email to Cooper - in Fargo for a concert - to see if he'd accept the keys to their hamlet. Cooper accepted and attracted over 1,000 fans to the ceremony in "downtown" Alice. So I guess Alice's gain was Cooperstown's loss.

This could open the floodgates for other North Dakota villages in need of a little boost to their economy. I'm surprised other towns haven't given this a whirl.

Maybe it's because the towns are named Leonard, Arthur, Harvey, Horace, and Sherwood. Not exactly the biggest names in music right now. Who's Flasher going to give its keys to? Some perv in a trenchcoat?

But some towns' names have musical ties. Taylor shouldn't settle for Taylor Dayne. Instead it should totally cash in on American Idol exposure by giving winner Taylor Hicks the keys to its city. Ray missed the boat on Ray Charles, but maybe Jamie Foxx could swing by and no one would notice.

Dwight might be able to score Yoakam. He'd probably be ready to make a beeline for the North Dakota state line given that The Rockette witnessed the Minneapolis Riverside Perkins refuse him service because they weren't open 24 hours. They wouldn't even give him a muffin to go.

I wonder why Manfred hasn't tried luring Manfred Mann or his Earth Band?

Crosby should give its keys to David Crosby. Sure Stills, Nash and possibly even Young will be all pissy because they weren't included, but Crosby could potentially offer to artificially inseminate the whole town and get that dwindling population thriving again.

I'd advise against St. Michael giving its keys to Michael Jackson for three reasons. First, he ain't no saint. Second, it would be impossible to assemble any Bahrainian boy harems in North Dakota. Third, St. Michael doesn't have a hotel let alone a balcony to dangle big plastic keys to the city from.

One thing's for sure: If Fleetwood Mac's Christine McVie is ever invited to Christine, N.D., I highly suggest she make sure that those keys are to the city and not a 1958 Plymouth Fury.

This post is dedicated to author and Spin Magazine writer Chuck Klosterman, a North Dakota farm kid who made it big writing essays about music and his life. I was lucky enough to work with Chuck for a short time at the Fargo Forum, and have always been a fan. I think it's about time Wyndmere changes its name to Chuck and gives him the keys.

Take It Like A Manilow

2006-05-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes fights are so hyped-up, they earn a nickname like The Thrilla in Manilla or The Rumble in the Jungle.

It's a shame Howard Cosell and Muhammad Ali never got a chance to witness The Harm on the Farm. That was the 13-hour bout between my sister Bubbles and I while the referees - our parents - were out of town.

It was 1979. My family lived on a small hobby farm in the Blue Ridge Mountain area of Virginia. They say Virginia is for lovers. Bubbles didn't get the memo on this. She was a fighter.

Granted, half the time I probably deserved to have my ass handed to me. I did enjoy picking on her. But the other half of the time was usually fallout from an argument of taste in entertainment.

Take music. I liked KISS. Bubbles adored Barry Manilow.

The folks were out of town and had left us alone to take care of ourselves. Bubbles was only 14 at the time, and I was 9. Normally, they would have gotten a sitter for us, but Bubbles and I talked Mom and Dad into leaving us alone after we had to fend for ourselves anyway during the previous horseshit sitter's stint.

Mom and Dad hadn't even backed out of the driveway when the race started to their bitchin' console stereo. It was a mammoth GE model with a flip-top lid, revealing the Hi-Fi AM-FM radio, turntable and a great 8-track deck.

Mom, a hip white chick, loved cranking The Commodores on it. I didn't mind Lionel Ritchie, but his music didn't make me want to dance on the ceiling. But I did not under any circumstances need to hear Manilow on a louder level.

Bubbles' bedroom was next to mine and all I heard for the previous 14 months from 9 at night until 5 in the morning was Barry Manilow over and over. She had a special turntable that would replay the same record repeatedly, the sound of which could not be smothered by any amount of pillows or blankets. Over time, I knew all the words to every song, but certainly not by choice. After hearing it 937 times, I was well aware who "wrote the songs of love and special things" and I hated that fucker for it.

With Mom and Dad out of the house, it was Bubbles' big chance to really crank "Copacabana." I tried to stop her, because I already knew about Lola and that music and passion were always the fashion and all that other bullshit. But Bubbles held me off with one hand while loading 2 or 3 Manilow albums on the stacking mechanism with the other. Once she had them in place, she sat on the stereo lid and cackled as "Can't Smile Without You" began to play.

I believe I became temporarily insane at this point. I actually tried to knock Bubbles off the stereo lid so I could turn down the volume. When that didn't work, I tried to unplug it. During the scuffle, I bumped the stereo hard enough that it scratched the album.

Needless to say, Bubbles cleaned my clock after this. She pummeled me mercilessly and left me in a blubbering heap on the 4-inch lime green shag carpet as Barry belted out "Looks Like We Made It."

Bubbles left the room to go watch TV in the den. Of course, she left the Manilow records playing to rub a little salt in my wounds, which included several scratches, a snake bite and multiple carpet burns. She figured I was down for the count for at least "Mandy" and "Even Now."

I must have laid on that shag canvas for a few hundred 10-counts. As each Barry song played, kiddie rage was building. By the time "This One's For You" started playing, I pulled myself to my hands and knees. I crawled towards the den, trying to conserve my energy for a counter-attack.

That's when I saw the sight that sent me over the edge. There Bubbles was, enjoying an episode of Knot's Landing. She had not only kicked my ass an hour ago, she now had control of the TV, too. To top it all off, she was sitting in Dad's recliner and was drinking the last Coke, which we had agreed to share earlier.

I did what any self-respecting little brother who had just gotten his ass kicked would have done. I totally sucker punched her. She didn't even see it coming.

I didn't wait to assess the damage. She was a jocky Tomboy at the time and quite a bit bigger than me. I got the hell out of there so A) she wouldn't kick my ass again; and B) so I didn't have to listen to Manilow sing "It's a Miracle."

I grabbed my canteen and a can of Pringles and headed outside. Seconds later, I heard some evil cackling behind me. I turned around and saw Bubbles waving as she turned the deadbolt on the door, locking me out of the house. That was OK. She had the "Bandstand Boogie" blaring and was dancing like those teeny boppers who dry humped Dick Clark every Saturday morning.

Fast forward about seven hours. I was hungry and tired, but she still had the door locked and wouldn't let me in. Four hours later - around 10 PM - it was getting dark and that little bag still hadn't unlocked the door. She taunted me by cranking "Daybreak." I figured she was probably sending me a message about the next time the door would be open.

Instead of begging her to let me in for the 1,000th time, I just started banging on the door. When my hands got tired, I grabbed my football helmet. While pounding on the door with that, I accidentally broke a small window pane in the door.

Bubbles unlocked it one second later and said "Geez, I was unlocking it." I tried to cover up the damage with the front of a Froot Loops box, but let's just say Mom and Dad "followed their nose" to the dinged door about 6 seconds after getting home the next day.

I got my butt whooped by Dad and was grounded for a month. Bubbles got a new Barry Manilow album for her sparkling behavior while the folks were away.

As I laid in bed that night listening to more Manilow from the next room, I finally started to get some inspiration from the music. I secretly wished I could spend a "Weekend in New England" to escape this hell on earth, or at minimum, I would have even settled to be "Somewhere Down the Road."

Worry wart

2006-04-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

It's too bad wart removers aren't effective on the worrying kind. It would have been nice to rub out Mom's worries and give her some peace of mind when I was growing up.

Mom's excessive worrying usually kicked into high gear when plans were made to leave the house. Even for a short trip away to go out to dinner, Mom paced around the house checking everything. She canvassed the house from top to bottom as if she was an OSHA inspector looking for a safety violation.

About 60 minutes later, we'd get the all clear and would be finally free to flee the premises. But we wouldn't get far in the car before the worry wart in Mom flared up again.

"Did we remember to shut the garage door?" she would announce about a block away from the house. "I don't remember seeing the door go all the way back down. It didn't go back up, did it? Sometimes it does that, you know."
Someone in the car should have convinced Mom they watched the garage door touch down on the edge of the driveway and stay shut. But that would have been too easy. Instead, Dad would fuel the fire with his big mouth.

"I didn't shut it this time," he'd say. "I thought I'd leave it open for some spring cleaning. Hopefully the thieves take all the shit I don't want anymore."

This would trigger a new wave of new worries.

"I think I screwed a 75-watt bulb into a lamp that only required a 60-watter," Mom would say. "We better turn around so I can swap them out. We don't need a fire starting."

Dad would shoot that down, too, saying he'd rather take the chance that the house might go up in flames rather than turn around in rush-hour traffic to check on something that was fine to begin with. The really funny thing about this was the "rush hour" he was talking about was in Bismarck, North Dakota, where traffic was seldom more than six cars (or tractors) on the road at the same time.

"I hope I didn't leave any windows open - what if it rains?" Mom would reply. "Did I close and lock the door?"

"No, you left the door propped open with a chair and hung a huge banner above it announcing 'We're out for a few hours. Feel free to loot or just make yourself at home,'" Dad replied.

We all shared a laugh about this because we would all watch Mom make her rounds around the house, checking every door - even the ones to the closets - to make sure they were locked and secure. She also checked all 22 windows. Before she left, she pulled on the front door three or four times to make sure it was locked, then unlocked it, opened it and shut it again, then repeated the re-check process. That house was more secure than Fort Knox.

The only good thing about finally arriving at the restaurant was it would get her mind off of the house. But as we walked into the restaurant, suddenly her worries were focused on something in the parking lot.

"Did we turn off the car's headlights?" she'd ask. "What about the dome light? That could drain the battery. Has the oil been changed recently? Have the tires been rotated?"

Instead of taking 20 minutes to review recent service records he has stuffed in the glove box, Dad would get sarcastic about the car's security.

"I think I might have left the car running with the doors open and a big sign under the windshield wiper that says 'Free car.' We might have to take a cab or a bus home," he said.

Just as I start digging into my burger and french fries, Mom pointed in horror toward my plate. Among my pile of fries, she spotted one that was darker in color than the others.

"Don't eat that!" she'd freak. "It's all brown. Something must be wrong with it. If you eat that, you might die. Or at least be very ill, more than likely winding up in the hospital."

At this point, Dad would snatch the oddball fry off of my plate, inspect it for a few seconds, and then pop it into his mouth. This action would cause Mom to buckle in the booth, nearly fainting from the thought of the consumption of such a skanky potato.

"Oh, Ma, it's nothing," he'd chuckle. "Just a little overcooked. The worst it could do is give me the runs."

As we walked back to the car, Mom would remove her leftovers from the doggie bag to use the paper pouch to hyperventilate into. The car was fine, but what about the house?

When we arrived back at home, Mom would see her house unscathed, so now her only worry was Dad's health. She'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if her husband would make it through the night with that brown french fry slowly being digested, poisoning his body.

When a day or two passed, along with the brown french fry, Mom would finally let out a big sigh of relief. It was as if she had just been brainwashed by Bobby McFerrin. And without a worry in the world, what better way to celebrate than to go out for dinner?

Uh-oh... here we go again!

Welcome to Dumpsville

2006-04-10T20:55:00.000-07:00

I have always prided myself in being able to turn crappy situations into positive ones. I was really put to the test with The Rockette a few years back.

I had booked a fantastic two-room suite at a well-known hotel chain as a surprise for The Rockette. At first glance, the suite looked pretty sweet. But things quickly went down the toilet when she went to use the bathroom minutes after arriving.

"Oh. My. God," The Rockette said in a trembling fearful voice. It was a much more frightened tone than the "there's a huge spider in here" voice. This was more like "there's a serial killer in the bathtub" kind of scared. She then let out a shriek. I ran in to help, only to discover a sight far more sinister than I could have ever imagined.

"I lifted up the toilet lid, but instead of a sanitation strip across the seat, I saw that stretched across the water," The Rockette said, pointing to a huge dump in the stool. "It looked like a tree limb. It was so awful I just screamed."

This thing was humongous. Whoever gave birth to that monstrosity must have had a midwife in the bathroom with him to have hot water and towels ready. There's no way the mystery crapper got that brute out without using Lamaze. Afterwards, he probably wished he would have had it removed via emergency C-section.

I called the front desk clerk and told her the situation. She was very unsympathetic to my poop plight.

"I think you need to fix this," I said. "I don't get it. Even Motel 6 leaves the light on for you. This place is higher up the hotel food chain. I'd figure you would at least flush."

The maintenance guy arrived seconds later, plunger in hand. He cheerfully said "I heard you have a problem with your toilet."

"It's not our problem," I assured him. "But whoever was in this room before us has bowel problems of apocalyptic proportions. It's like a chunk of telephone pole. I'm afraid to flush it."

The maintenance guy took a gander in the stool and laughed. He was about to flush it, but I pushed his hand aside. It didn't seem right that he be the hotel's only eye witness. We already had some shit, so why not stir it up a bit? I called the front desk again.

"I'm an easy-going guy and can put up with a lot of crap," I told her. "But this is real crap. And there's a lot of it. If we have to look at this log, I think you should, too."

I didn't stop there. Besides the front desk clerk, I also insisted the maid who cleaned the room, the head housekeeper, and the manager all take a peek at the poop. I also suggested a call be placed to Guiness World Records to record this moment in history.

Two maids were next to arrive at the crime scene. After seeing the fecal annaconda, one maid glared at me and said "Well, I'm not touching it."

"Well, I'm not asking you to be a sewer snake handler, I'm just asking you to clean it up," I said. "I'm sure as hell not going to do it. And here's a pointer: Just because the lid is down, it does not mean the toilet is clean."

The maintenance guy was a big fan of bathroom humor. He kept snickering and giving the maids a hard time which one of them was going to "fish it out."

"If you fish a whopper that big out of water, you would normally hang it on your wall," I said. "But that's bigger than a fish. That shit is like a ship. It probably has a proper name and was christened before making its maiden voyage to bottom of the untidy bowl."

At this point, The Rockette had to leave the room because she was about to burst into laughter. I continued making comparisons to the turd's size, such as Babe Ruth's bat and King Tut's mummified femur. Only the maintenance guy was amused.

The head housekeeper was next to enter the bathroom. He immediately turned into Matlock. He knew better not to demand I bend over for dingleberry DNA analysis. Instead, after looking at the log and asking no questions, he announced to the room that the culprit who did it must have been the guests who were in the room before us because their plane was delayed and they were let back in the room after it was cleaned.

No shit, Sherlock!

"Well, I just can't believe there is no blood trail from the stool out the door, so we'll just have to assume the bad guy got away," I said. "What's important now is not who shit or how to clean it up, but how you will wipe this from our memory."

The maintenance guy took this as his cue to try and flush Nessie back to Loch Sewer. The Louisville Slugger struggled before finally disappearing. But the toilet became instantly plugged.

Then the manager arrived and asked to see the log. Without the real McCoy to look at, he asked for every gory detail. So naturally, I let him have it. When I was finished he knew the color, texture and how many kernels of corn were in it.

The manager offered two free drinks or a free breakfast for the "inconvenience," but he probably offered it so I would quit talking shit to him.

"Well, two drinks would be a start to forget that fancy fencepost," I said. "Breakfast would be good, but that's pretty much free already anyway. Dinner on you would be a great gesture for us to move past that first impression your hotel gave us."

The manager bristled slightly, but quickly agreed to the deal, which ended up having a cash value of $59.

That night, The Rockette and I sat in a dimly lit dining room enjoying steak and shrimp dinners. We clinked our wine glasses together. An older couple sitting near us looked over admiringly until they heard my toast.

"Here's to $59 shits."

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

2006-03-30T20:15:00.000-08:00

This blog was launched a little over a year ago, but the Rocky Road Scholar started writing long before that. About 25 years ago, the bug to "report news" bit me hard.

We had just moved from north Florida to Bismarck, N.D. It was quite the change in scenery. Many of my new friends had newspaper routes. Delivering the paper just didn't do it for me. I longed to be on a different side of the business. I was more interested in the content.

Unfortunately, at the time, news and other current events didn't measure up to the action happening inside Rocky's residence. There was much better news at home, and I was just the kid to report it.

My Mom and Dad had an old typewriter and a copy machine in their home office, so printing would not be an issue. It was just a matter of writing the copy. Granted, I didn't churn out enough to fill the New York Times. I wrote just enough to fill one standard 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of paper, which I named Rocky's Record. But it was loaded with good stuff.

Initially, my newspaper started to take a tabloid slant. It was mainly a bunch of gossip about my sister, Bubbles, who was 16 at the time. It was the perfect vehicle to continue picking on her, a little brother's duty. I mainly focused on who she was rumored to be dating, what she was wearing, what she ate and other juicy tidbits, ala The National Enquirer or The Star.

I tested the waters with Bubbles Sleeps Until Noon Again. That went over OK, so I tried Ditzy Bubbles Loses Scrabble Game to Sixth-Grader Brother next, before rolling the presses with Bubbles' Room Declared Disaster Area.

Eventually, I became an even bolder reporter, daring to tell the story: Shuttle Astronauts Report Seeing Zit on Bubbles' Face From Space. It read: "Yes, the zit was as big as Mt. St. Helens and every bit as unstable. But Bubbles has been working extra hard to try and contain the disaster, trying to pop it with a tweezers. Word on the street is, as soon as Dad gets home, he's going to help her take care of business with a vice grip, a hammer and a large chisel."

I even branched out on this story and was a photographer as well. I took a snap shot with a Polaroid Instant camera of her trying to pop it in the bathroom mirror. She went all Sean Penn on my ass, trying to inflict damage on her paparazzi brother, the camera and the fresh polaroid. The story still ran.

Eventually, I took on even bigger news stories, like Welcome to Dumpsville: Population, Bubbles.

It read: "Bubbles and Steve broke up four nights ago, but she's still laying in bed blubbering about it. He was a jerk. Get over it. When she isn't in bed bawling over this loser, she comes upstairs to have a snack, which usually consists of 4 donuts, 2 bananas, 2 Eggo waffles and about 7 glasses of orange juice. How long will it take for her to get over this? We're not sure, but it's no biggie. It's not like she's an old maid now."

You'd think this kind of edgey journalism would have led to death threats, but Bubbles would always laugh it off in the end. Until she heard I was selling copies of my paper to neighbors for 25 cents. Then she was pissed. But she forgave me again a while later and laughed about it.

Mom and Dad thought although it was a little mean at times, it was a major creative outlet for me. Maybe I reminded them of Peter "Scoop" Brady with my newspaper reporter fixation. I could have been a far worse brother, spraying Bubbles and her friends' with some goofy volcanic science experiment. But even Mom and Dad reached a point where no news was good news.

Like the day they were engaged in kitchen combat. Unfortunately, an embedded reporter was at the snack bar, eating pizza. He took notes on a napkin and it became his Pulitzer Prize hopeful story Stove Off But Kitchen Heats Up.

It read: "Dad took Mom's questions of why he was late for lunch as "nagging." As the tension grew, barbs were traded until Dad finally bellered 'Ah, blow it out your big ass!' Mom was lightning quick with her response: 'Oh, yeah? My ass isn't half as big as yours, buddy!'"

After Bubbles and I laughed about this fight for 20 minutes, I realized this was my Woodward and Bernstein moment. I had to get cracking on that cover story. Needless to say, those quotes were a huge hit with the neighbors. I sold a record number of Rocky's Record that day - 13 copies. It proved to be an unlucky number.

One of the copies came back to Mom and I quickly learned about censorship. She flipped when she found out I sold a play-by-play of her and Dad's kitchen spat to the whole neighborhood for $3.25. Rocky's Record was immediately shut down.

Mom and Dad laugh about all that now. And they actually enjoy my blog. So no worries of Rocky Road Scholar getting its plug pulled after this trip down Memory Lane.

Good Year of Blogging Did Not Tire Me

2006-03-19T15:54:00.000-08:00

Time certainly does fly when you're having fun.

I can't believe it, but today marks the one-year anniversary since I started my blog. Here I am 60 posts and almost 18,000 hits later, in complete awe how this project has exceeded my wildest expectations.

When I initially started this blog, it gave me a creative outlet for my writing. My goal in a story has always been to entertain, and hopefully make people laugh. It also gave my family and friends a place to read my work whenever they wanted to.

I have to thank my better half, The Rockette, for encouraging me to start the blog and share my attempts at humor. She is incredibly supportive of everything I do, and every story I write is a little bit better thanks to her encouragement, suggestion(s), and/or editing.

What I didn't expect from the blog was to attract many other regular readers. By that I don't mean readers with a high-fiber intake, I mean readers who enjoy my stuff and come back for more. I simply can not convey what a truly rewarding yet humbling experience that has been for me, seeing familiar names reading my stories and many times even commenting.

I'm trying not to make this sound like an Oscar-winning speech, but I just can't help it. I've "won" an audience, a far better award than a golden trophy of some anatomically incorrect dude. However, I am very close to blubbering "You like me, you really like me!"

I really want to thank each and every reader for inspiring me to write better: JudiBootie, Spammy, FuzzBox, Ella, JohnB, Watcher, David Amulet, Stringman, WarCryGirl, T, Nicole, DanjerusKurves, Crazy Dan, Phoenix, Alekx, CT, Marti, Amy, Meg, Lingo Slinger, Ranea, Burfica, Anelize, Curare_Z, DebbieCakes, Janey, Kimberly, Rev. Billy Bob, PhlegmFatale, TJoint, Shaken Not Stirred, LadyBug, Haddock, Helen, Kip, AKA Fatty, Kevin, Empress, PDX Biker, Metal Mark, Polly & Deiter, Andria, Gary, Samantha Burns, Sudiegirl, Rainstorms, Phred, Ann, and Tina. If I inadvertently left you off of the list, it was purely unintentional (give me a swift kick in the butt and I will revise it).

Also, a special hats off to these gentlemen at MNspeak: Rex for listing my blog and exposing it to Minnesota and other area bloggers, and Matt for selecting my polar bear story for a local news link March 9. That was too cool.

My hope is that this blog will help me launch a writing career someday. It has been my dream since I was a kid to write books that make people laugh. In my 20s, I worked as a reporter for newspapers. It was fun, but it didn't fill the bill creatively that this blog has. Rocky Road Scholar has literally given me free reign to write about whatever I want, however I want with no censorship. It is about as free as a writer can be.

I've selected 10 posts which I got the biggest kick out of writing. I would ask for a favor: Input from readers. Which post is your favorite? Give them a read and let me know by voting via comment (or email me if you wish to vote anonymously) which was my best work.

Which post would be the runner-up? (The runner-up post would assume the crown if the favorite post was somehow lost in a freak Blogger mishap or home computer crash, etc.) If I left a story off the list that you think belongs there, by all means vote for it anyway.

Here's the list...

You're Excommunicated! - from March 25, 2005
Scent of a One-Armed Woman - from April 3, 2005
Feeding Frenzy - From August 14, 2005
Who's The Cheesiest of Them All? - From August 30, 2005
Just Plain Nuts - From September 21, 2005
Viking Ship Turns Into Love Boat - From October 16, 2005
Bizarre Bazaar - From November 11, 2005
Brokeback Burrito Line - From January 6, 2006
The Fat Is In The Fire - From January 11, 2006
Buckle It Or White-Knuckle It - From February 12, 2006

UPDATE - Thanks to everyone who voted and commented. Brokeback Burrito Line was the clear favorite with 13 first-place votes. Just Plain Nuts and Buckle It Or White-Knuckle It were the top runner-up choices.

On Thursday, I will post a historical look at my first attempts at writing my own newspaper at the age of 11. I suppose you could call those efforts the "grandfather" of this blog.

My Post-Whammy Plan

2006-03-15T21:33:00.000-08:00

I was bummed to hear that Press Your Luck game show host Peter Tomarken died in a plane crash earlier this week. Yes, he had big bucks, big bucks, but in the end, even he could not avoid The Whammy.

The Rockette and I heard the news while we were looking for some important documents. Then it hit us. Although our home looks clean on the surface, it's about as organized as a landfill once you start digging deeper. We just don't have a lot of our things in order.

This mess, Tomarken's accidental death and Kirby Puckett's passing at age 45 last week led The Rockette to say "If something happened to one of us, the other person would be totally screwed." She didn't just mean from losing a soulmate, but that the survivor would also have to sift through thousands of papers just to figure out what the hell was going on. That's not the type of burden you want to put on your spouse during a mourning period.

During this discussion, another uncomfortable topic arose. We had never really told each other about our preferred funeral arrangements should the unthinkable happen. Granted, I'm only 36 and she's only 33, but you just never know. It was a sad, dark, but necessary thing to discuss.

After The Rockette disclosed her "last wishes," I thought it was necessary to lighten the mood for a little while. It's tough for me to see her sad. I've been a goofball my whole life and have always turned to humor to brighten up any moment. I also like giving The Rockette a hard time for fun, so I figured it was time to do some macabre multi-tasking.

Here were my top 10 funeral ideas to try and get The Rockette smiling again...

#10 – Buy an empty lot somewhere and bury me on it. A few years later, remove my headstone and build a new house on my grave, then sell it to some unsuspecting family. This will enable me to go totally Poltergeist on their asses. Only a creepy midget lady telling me to go to the light would cleanse the house of my spirit.

#9 - Plant my body near my scumbag former boss' house and make it look like a clumsy homicide with all evidence pointing directly back at him. Even better, somehow get my body inside the trunk of one of his cars. Then make an “anonymous” tip.

#8 - Do a bottom's up open casket, meaning I want my body to be placed face down. The top part of the casket should be left closed but the bottom half should be open. My pants should be around my ankles, enabling my moon to shine for the open viewing. Anyone who didn't think I was a smart ass in life would get the picture now.

#7 - Have my best friend Spam and some lucky blog reader whisk my corpse off to some tropical isle and then masquerade as if I am still alive ala Weekend at Bernie's. I'm sure it would be much funnier watching Spam and one of my blog readers trying to drag my dead ass around than that movie was.

#6 – Put me in a suitcase and go to the airport. Talk about overpacking! Find someone with an identical bag and switch them. Then buy a ticket for their flight so you can watch them try to stuff me in the overhead compartment.

#5 – How about an Old West theme? First find a funeral home that still sells those old “pine box” coffins. You may have to go to western South Dakota for this, but I assure you it will be well worth it.

Dress me in country western clothes, preferably all in black. Then have a makeup artist fashion a fake bullet hole in my forehead (unless I happen to die in such fashion, then just leave as is). Create wanted posters featuring my face and a “reward” offer.

Then have funeral-goers pose with my standing corpse like they did in the Old West, taking pictures with one of those exploding flashbulb cameras of the era. Serve Tombstone pizza and invite Kurt Russell, Val Kilmer, and Sam Elliott.

#4 - Babble some bullshit to Amy Grant how it was always my dream to climb Mount Everest and how you want to make that last wish come true for me. Then find some little Sherpa to try and drag my 335-pound dead ass up the mountain (no yak assistance allowed).

If he actually makes it, by all means, have him pitch my carcass next to the hundreds of oxygen tanks discarded there.

#3 – Donate my body to science. Make sure to film a videotape of my autopsy. My naked body would make more cops faint than the opening of Quincy when that sheet got pulled back in the morgue. Then Quincy would crack over when he sees my liver was bigger than Ruben Studdard.

#2 – Offer me for sale as emergency rations to any survivors from that Chilean soccer team that had co-pilot leftovers for 3 months in the Antilles. I've got way more quality meat, probably 175 pounds field dressed. I’m sure I would have great ribs, a tender rump roast and bitchin' drumsticks.

#1 - Some people are getting cremated into yellow diamonds as a keepsake for loved ones. Imagine the gargantuan rock my wife would have on her finger after my cremation! It would be way bigger than the ring Kobe gave his wife to smooth over that whole rapist thing.

Grin and Bear It

2006-03-08T19:24:00.000-08:00

I was minding my own business, sitting on a bench in the Mall of America waiting for my wife to finish up some shopping when it appeared. I hadn't seen something that big, white and hairy since Christmas.

"Hey, you," the man, probably 400 pounds, grunted as he staggered up to the bench. "Is there enough room left on that seat for a big ol' polar bear?"

"Sure," I said, sliding down slightly to allow him more sitting space.

"Most people don't know what to think when I ask them that," he said.

"Really? People won't move over to let you sit down?" I asked.

"No, no! People get nervous when I tell them I'm a polar bear," he said.

This always happens to me. My personality is like a double-edged sword. I am very open and social, so I tend to attract a lot of people I don't know into conversation. Usually, these are people who end up being quite pleasant to be around. But that magnet also attracts a weirdo every now and then.

"Probably got you wonderin' too," he rambled on. "But it's true. Yep, I'm 100 percent polar bear. I should be up in Alaska chasing down seals for supper."

"Well, I guess I kind of know what you mean," I said. "I should be in Jellystone Park stealing pic-a-nic baskets."

"What?" he said.

"I was joking," I said. "You made it sound like you felt at home in the cold like a polar bear. I'd probably feel at home in a park eating hot dogs and potato salad like Yogi Bear."

"Oh, I wasn't joking," he said. "This is no cartoon. I really am a polar bear."

OK, I don't know what the hell was up with this dude, but he may have had one too many Icees in the former Camp Snoopy. Maybe he crossed the line and mixed the cherry and blue raspberry flavors, creating some weird mascot trip.

"You still don't believe me do you?" he said. "Well, I've got proof. Wanna see?"

I didn't know really what to say at that point. I was now engaged in a conversation with some sort of disturbed large mammal. I didn't spot any tracking tags on his ears, which meant he wasn't currently being monitored by animal scientists. But maybe he was a polar bear. He did sport a large matted white beard with yellowish spots, which may have been either blonde hair or mustard.

He whipped out this photo album cleverly disguised in a Barnes & Noble bag. There were pictures of polar bears all over it, and a picture of this guy's face in the middle. It read: My Polar Bear Book. What scrapbook club was stuck with this nutcase?

"You know what I am?" he whispered.

"Drunk?" I asked.

"No, no!" he growled. "I'm one of them crazy guys who straps on his bathing suit once every winter, cuts a hole in the ice and jumps in for a swim. I'm a polar bear, get it?"

Then he flips open his album and there are dozens of pictures of him, frolicking around on the ice of a frozen lake, jumping in the water, and splashing around. Later, there are pictures of same guy shivering under a mountain of blankets, looking like a Titanic survivor plucked from the frigid North Atlantic.

"Wow, I've never seen a polar bear look so cold," I commented. "You don't look too dangerous in that shot, all wrapped up in those plush blankets. You look more like a Care Bear."

"Care Bear!" he roared. "How dare you call me that! It's the worst kind of bear you could be!"

"You're insulted? I thought it was a compliment - Care Bears are so popular," I lied. "It's not like I called you Teddy Ruxpin."

"Who?" he said. "Well, anyway, I normally shake it off and don't need blankets, but it was 3 degrees that day. So there, I'm still a polar bear."

"Well, I don't feel the need to go winter swimming to pretend I'm a bear," I said. "If I was going to imitate a bear during the winter, I'd rather just hibernate in my den in front of the TV."

"You could never be a polar bear then," he snipped, slamming shut his album. "I can't believe there are people living in Minnesota like you. If you don't like the cold, you should just move to Jamaica."

I had heard more than I could bear at this point, so I went totally Nanook on his ass.

"Hey, chill out," I said. "If you are so obsessed with polar bears, maybe you should move closer to the Arctic Circle. And aren't you going a little overboard with the whole polar bear thing? I mean, you only do this once a year, right? I'd figure a polar bear would swim all winter long."

"I would swim more if they had more events," he backpeddled.

"What the hell do you need an event for?" I asked. "You're a polar bear. Or are you the type of polar bear who spends his weekends chugging cases of Coca Cola with penguins?"

"Those commercials don't reflect the true spirit of the polar bear," he snarled.

"And you do?" I laughed. "Have you ever made an Eskimo piss in his parka?"

"No..." he said somberly.

"And you call yourself a polar bear?" I said.

"Not just me," he countered. "I even have a certificate on page 34 of my album that says I'm a polar bear."

"Come on!" I laughed. "Polar bear, my ass. How'd you get here?"

"I took the bus," he said.

"Bus? But you're a polar bear!" I said. "What polar bears use the bus?! I would have thought you floated down the river on an ice floe."

"Well, if I could, I would," he said. "Usually I just walk like a polar bear."

"On all fours?" I asked.

"Sometimes!" he exclaimed.

"Have you been to the doctor's office?" I asked.

"What does that have to do with being a polar bear?" he asked.

"A lot. If you were a real polar bear you wouldn't be waiting in a reception area reading People for 45 minutes until the doctor's ready to see you," I said. "You'd be running for your life when that fucker is chasing you in a helicopter. Then he'd dart you with a tranq gun - pretty much the only way to perform a medical exam on a polar bear."

"Hey, waitaminute," he said. "That is the only way I'd let a doctor come close to me. I guess I really am a polar bear."

I finally nodded in agreement. Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it.

Junk Mail Offers Bum Deal

2006-02-26T21:11:00.000-08:00

Junk mail can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

I was reminded of that while sifting through an envelope filled with coupons for area St. Paul businesses, and stumbled upon a brochure titled: Hemorrhoids - The Problem No One Talks About.

I wonder why no one wants to talk about it? It almost makes me wish I had hemorrhoids. Then I could shift every normal conversation toward that torrid zone of too much information.

My boss: Hey, Rocky, how was your weekend?

Me: Oh, it was OK until that wicked hemorrhoid flare-up. It felt like my jockey shorts had been marinated with a fine blend of tabasco sauce and itching powder. Every time I sat down, I yipped like a coyote caught in a bear trap. I wish Krispy Kreme made a donut you could sit on.

Luckily, pain in the ass conversations like that could be a thing of the past thanks to the hemorrhoid brochure, which boasts of Infrared Coagulation (IRC): The non-surgical solution.

That's good news. It's bad enough to have to undergo any kind of surgery, and I can't imagine having to go under the knife to fix my ass. The whole thing would seem unnatural from the moment they wheeled me face down on the gurney into the operating room.

How come we've never seen this procedure on ER? That would be some riveting drama. I would have liked to see George Clooney, Julianna Margulies, or that Revenge of the Nerds guy get stuck with some bulging ass veins for a change instead of their usual traumatic medical bullshit.

Inside the brochure, a banner headline reads: Hemorrhoids - A Problem Worth Solving. But what if your hemorrhoids are like a really complicated word problem involving two trains - one leaving Chicago at 9:30 PM doing 52 miles per hour and another leaving Chattanooga at 10:15 PM doing 63 miles per hour? Maybe then you'd just say fuck it, it's not worth solving, I'll just worry about this extra lump inside my scrotum instead.

Don't Suffer Another Day the brochure brags at the bottom. But the suffering is only beginning. The middle two pages feature a list of questions, and I must admit, I was shocked by the answers. Of course, the place only paints a pretty picture, so I've added my own interpretation of what the real answers could be as a paranoid non-medical service to the readers of this blog.

Rocky's disclaimer: Then again, I could just be bitter ever since I lost my ass virginity about 3 years ago to a doctor's hand. Marcus Welby claimed he was checking my prostate, but it seemed like his fingers were careening towards my spleen. I found his watch the next day. A week after that I found his class ring.

Enough about my ass, let's get back to the hemorrhoids brochure...

Question #1: What is IRC?
Brochure answer: It's a minimally invasive non-surgical hemorhhoid treatment... A small probe contacts the area above the hemorhhoid, exposing the tissue to a burst of infrared light for one second... The patient may feel a slight sensation of heat, but it is generally not painful, therefore anesthesia is not required...

My take: Maybe nothing around your ass is minimally invasive, it's more like D-Day... A small probe? Who's doing the procedure? Aliens? Why can't they just leave your ass alone and go back to doing their silly little crop circles and mutilating farm animals?... This sounds like bullshit. Whenever they say it's not going to hurt, it usually does. When they say it's just going to be a little prick and it feels like you've been hit with a pitchfork, the only little prick you feel is the doctor who just brushed up against you during the procedure.

Question #2: Does the IRC procedure hurt?
Brochure answer: Medical studies have shown that our treatment causes much less discomfort than any other non-surgical hemorrhoid treatment and often is totally painless.

My take: Compared to what other non-surgical treatments? Having Dr. Scissorhands slice and dice your ass like it's an overgrown shrub? Or does a nurse don a welding shield like that chick from Flashdance and use a lighter in hopes of torching a fart to burn them out?

Question #3: How long is the procedure?
Brochure answer: Generally, it lasts about 10 minutes.

My take: If the procedure to zap the hemorrhoid only takes a second, what are they doing to your ass the other 9 minutes and 59 seconds? Blowing smoke up it, perhaps?

Question #4: How many treatments are required?
Brochure answer: This is on a case-by-case basis, but usually about 5-7 visits are required at 1-2 week intervals.

My take: Your ass will be getting tapped for the next 5 to 14 weeks. And giving someone 5 to 7 cracks at your ass seems excessive for such a simple, painless solution.

Question #5: Will I be able to have normal bowel movement?
Brochure answer: Yes, IRC produces no disruption to your work schedule or lifestyle.

My take: I'm not sure who gets to shit as part of their normal work schedule. Maybe the product tester at Charmin. If normal bowel movements don't start, I'd suggest eating 10 bean burritos from Taco Bell. It makes perfect sense, since their slogan is "Think outside the bun(s)." Not only would that make you so regular you'd be irregular, it would make them pay for making you come back for treatment #7.

Question #6: What must I do after the procedure?
Brochure answer: You can continue your usual activities, even on the day of treatment.

My take: Hey, congratulations! Your ass is normal! Go moon the audience of a crowded theatre. Go find a woman to spank you, as it will hurt in a good way for once.

Bringing up the rear on the back of the brochure are two testimonials, including photos of the people who used to be ass-ravaged. They did, however, only use their initials so just their friends and relatives will know the secret identities behind all of that burning, itching, swelling and bleeding. Thanks, L.W. and R.F., for telling us how you sat on your sore asses for 13 and 5 years respectively before doing something.

Finally, at the bottom of the page, the Hemorrhoid Treatment Center boasts of its "convenient" locations. Across the entire U.S.A., it's only found in seven states: Minnesota, Arizona, Georgia, Michigan, New York, Ohio and Texas.

You know what this means? Some poor bastard in Maine or Washington State has to drive through about 5 or 6 states on that sore swollen ass just to get this simple treatment. After a trip like that, I'd say your bloated bum would be stuck with 20 to 25 treatments, minimum, which sounds like an even bigger pain in the ass than it's worth to me.

Ways to warm up the Winter Olympics

2006-02-19T18:54:00.000-08:00

The Winter Olympics need to spice things up if it hopes to heat up its image. If you are into winter sports, the Games do offer plenty to watch. But to nab a broader appeal and to boost the TV ratings NBC is always bitching about, the Winter Olympics committee needs to cash in on what viewers are looking for.

Even though Antarctica is a continent and not a country with no real native human citizens, I say add it to the mix anyway. Let the penguins compete. People love those slippery little dudes even more ever since that March of the Penguins movie. Let them do the luge on their bellies, and finish with a splash by directing the route right into the water. If people bitch that the Olympics are just for people, let Danny DeVito be the proxy athlete.

If that is deemed too drastic, there is a much easier fix: Add new sports. The snowboarding events was a start, but it is no time to let up. All you need to do is examine many of the mainstay sports to realize the Winter Olympics may need to add more excitement to the lineup.

Take curling. Ask me 25 years ago what curling was and I would have told you it was what kept my sister in the bathroom for 3 hours before a simple outing to the Pizza Hut (Which some may find more exciting than people sliding large rocks down the ice, where people with brooms try to "sweep" the rocks into position on a bullseye target at the end).

The biathlon combines the event of cross-country skiing with rifle marksmanship. Cross-country skiing is probably not the most exciting Winter Olympics event to combine with shooting. But give a downhill skier a rifle, and then we have a different interest altogether.

Organizers could surely come up with even better choices of which event needs to be armed, such as matching ski jumping with archery. Or how about making one of the two middle men on the four-man bobsled team actually do something besides leaning. I say arm him with a blow dart gun and try to hit marked spectators in the crowd on the way down.

Speaking of the bobsled, why not up the ante and have an 8-person event. The sled should look much like the shell of a 1973 Country Squire station wagon. But there should be more roles than just the brakeman and the driver. Might I suggest the other six participants each have to complete one of the following tasks on the way down the track:

1. Apply makeup.
2. Shave.
3. Consume a McDonald's value meal and a hot cup of coffee.
4. Make at least two cell phone calls.
5. Do a quickie crossword puzzle.
6. One has to pick on the other athletes to the point where the driver threatens to "stop this bobsled, and turn around and go home" if they don't behave themselves.

Extra style points could be added if the driver flips off another country's bobsled team during the run, officially bringing road rage to the bobsled track.

Some other new events that would be fine additions to the Winter Games:

Snowball fighting - This event would probably have to be closely monitored so countries like Iraq and Afghanistan didn't try to hide rocks within their snowballs, thus creating SMDs (snowballs of mass destruction).

Snow fort building - Judges would look for not only size of the fort, but special features such as multiple rooms, entrances and the ability to stand up inside. There would be a time limit, and the difficulty of executing the blueprint would be taken into consideration. Example: The United States team of Alaskans erecting an igloo in 45 minutes would mean certain Olympic glory.

Finnish Sauna - OK, so the Finns would be a natural favorite for the gold here. But people running out of a sauna naked and then rolling in the snow would definitely give the TV ratings a needed nudge.

Snow angel making - This event would be judged on artistry and perfection. Not only how good does the angel look, but is there any damage to the outer part of the angel when the participant tries to exit the imprint?

Snowman building - Athletes have to be careful in this event because if they start out too big on the base snowball, it may be too difficult to lift the "thorax" and head balls on top of the base. Creative design is also big here. If your snowman is decorated with just a couple lumps of coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose, don't expect to be on the medals platform. However, if your snowman is wearing the outfit that your country's Miss Universe Pageant contestant was wearing, then you may capture gold.

Lunchtray luge - The Olympiad lugers think they have a dangerous ride. Try clinging to a school cafeteria lunchtray when rocketing down a track at 80 miles per hour. To make it really interesting, an added requirement could be chugging a pint carton of milk on the way down.

3,000K icey parking lot walk - This can be a challenge after a nice sleet storm. It takes the perfect step and just the right speed to complete this course. Walking seems boring, but add that ice surface and you'd see more wipeouts than a surfing contest and more crashes than a NASCAR race combined. The resulting injuries would equal big ratings.

Ice scraping - As long as you have the ice-covered events, this would be another doozy. Of course, there would be the compact car event, which would be dominated by the Japanese. There would also be the SUV event, where scraping a two-inch layer of ice off of a Ford Excursion's windows would test even the strongest ice scraping arms. Any attempts to start the vehicles and use defrost heater settings would result in immediate disqualification.

Stick your tongue to a frozen flagpole - This event would combine the talent of arguing with the ability to rescue a teammate after his tongue has been hopelessly stuck to a frozen metal flagpole. After the proper double- and triple-dog dares are issued, the tongues get stuck and the clock starts. How quickly can the poor bastard's countrymen free him from the frozen flagpole? That time coupled with points for the least amount of tongue surface damage spell Olympic gold.

Name writing in the snow - This would be a real pissing match. Americans and Canadians would be so good at this event. I actually would even have a chance at being an Olympic athlete, and would really display my ability to "go for the gold."

As long as someone reminds the Danish to stick to names and not wizzing pictures of religious deities, the sport should be safe for spectators. The Dutch would be a bonafide contender in this event - their ability to put those little umlauts on their Häagen-Dazsy names and not dribble on their wooden shoes would be duly noted.

Buckle It or White-Knuckle It

2006-02-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

I've been doing a lot of traveling over the last two months due to my new job. This story is going to get kind of crazy, so buckle up - it's going to be a wild ride. Keep your arms and legs safely inside this blog until you've finished reading.

I must say I'm a big fan of seatbelts. I never needed to be sold on the idea by some crash test dummies. They save lives, but for me, maybe it's because I have an easier time finding seatbelts that fit me than regular belts to hold my pants up. Maybe I just need to give up on clothing stores and start buying belts for my wardrobe at an auto parts store or junkyard.

Friend: "Where did you get that wicked belt?"

Me: "I got it out of a 1994 Ford Taurus from Mack's Auto Salvage. I actually have 4 different colors of this belt at home - pawnee tan, nimbus gray, portofino blue and medium seafoam!"

Anything that can keep my massive ass strapped in a seat in the event of a crash is just a modern marvel, really. I've always considered myself safe traveling thanks to seatbelts.

Except twice.

The first time wasn't even while traveling by normal means. It was at an amusement park.

Being a bigger dude, I usually avoid rides that look like they'd be too small to stuff my big butt in, or rides that look unsafe for a man half my size to ride. That being said, I must have been temporarily insane in February 2002.

That's when my wife (AKA The Rockette) and I met up with our great friends JudiBootie and her husband at Universal Studios in Orlando. The idea was to go on some rides, eat at some restaurants, have loads of fun and start swinging (Ha! Got you on the last one, didn't I?! Sorry, I'm a tease). We accomplished three of the four things previously mentioned, but on the last day of our two-day tour, a warning flag was waved.

The Rockette wanted to go on the Incredible Hulk roller coaster. I was game, but next to the sign that says "You must be this tall to ride" there were some seat examples that basically meant "If you can't fit your fat ass in these, don't get in line."

Well, I tried the seats, and it felt like I was trying to cram into a kid's booster seat at Perkins. There was no way my ass was going to squeeze into the slot, let alone wrap a seatbelt around the whole package. So The Rockette went on the ride with JudiBootie's husband while I bitched to JudiBootie how I "couldn't believe there wasn't a spot for a 300-pound plus dude on a roller coaster named after the Incredible Hulk." I exploded out of my shirts and pants on a daily basis, and I belonged on that ride dammit. But some coaster designer didn't want any real-life Hulks aboard this train.

Someone decided I needed to be consoled by going on the Doctor Doom Fear Fall ride. JudiBootie's husband told me the ride was basically backwards bungee jumping, where instead of falling down, you get shot up into the air. Then you got the added pleasure of plummeting back to earth. Oh, joy!

As we were waiting our turn to defy death, I wondered why the hell I was even standing in line. I have a fear of heights. So getting on a ride that basically catapults you straight up into the air, then lets you freefall back to Earth was already a heart attack waiting to happen. Then add a silly little thing like my seatbelt not staying clasped and, Houston, we have a huge fucking problem. But on the other hand, I was having so much fun with The Rockette, JudiBootie and her hubby I decided to stick it out and face my fear.

Now it was our turn, so I got in the seat and clasped my seatbelt. It was a tad tight, but seemed to do the trick. But just before the Carnie was doing his final safety check, my seatbelt popped open with a loud "ping" noise. I hadn't even moved, it just flew off for no reason other than failing to harness my huge ass in the seat.

I switched seats with JudiBootie's hubby, thinking the seatbelt was the problem. I grabbed the belt and buckled it. All systems were just about go again until that familiar "ping" noise. The damn belt busted loose again. The countdown was delayed so I could rebuckle, but the "ping" soon followed.

I started thinking it was time to abort the mission since I couldn't keep my seatbelt on. But this time, instead of stopping the countdown, the Carnie just said "Awwww, don't worry about it. That's just a secondary safety feature anyway." Then that 3-toothed bastard flipped the switch and sent my huge ass hurtling into space with my three fellow astronauts.

The only thing holding me into the seat was a metal bar that seemed about as sturdy as an old bicycle frame. I clutched onto that metal so hard that if they ever make a CSI:Orlando, I'm pretty sure they'd be able to find my fingerprints embedded in it. When we reached the highest point, I enjoyed the view of sunny Orlando for a split second. Then I heard a "ping" again, which was my seat belt slapping against the seat frame, a wonderful reminder that I wasn't buckled up. I closed my eyes and began to pray that I wouldn't hear a much louder ping of the primary safety feature giving way.

My prayers were answered and I reached the ground safely. But The Rockette and JudiBootie had to pry my fingers off of that frame. At that point, I had a new appreciation for seatbelts. I never wanted to go on a deathride like that again. To top it all off, the Doom Gift Shop sold hats and T shirts, but not new pairs of underwear for those of us who had just shit our pants.

Fast forward to last week, when I'm boarding a flight from Chicago's O'Hare to Minneapolis-St. Paul. I'm a big guy, but "luckily" my hugeness spills forward and not over the sides of my seat. That means my only challenge is to get the seatbelt clicked.

Most airline seatbelts fit me no problem. United's are by far the most roomy. Northwest, Delta and Southwest aren't bad either. I've had a few close calls with some of their seatbelts, but I'm usually always able to get them fastened by sucking in my gut, taking a deep breath or just pulling and praying until I hear the "click." Let me tell you, a "click" gives me a much safer feeling than a "ping" any day.

But on this American flight, my seatbelt was so small I couldn't even get the two sides closer than 6 inches apart. This mind boggled me because the dude across the aisle from me had to be 400 pounds plus and he had slack in his belt.

The flight attendant walked by and I said "excuse me, I'm having a hell of a time with this belt..."

She said, "OK, honey, I'll be right back."

The flight attendant did seem pretty busy. After all, it was a hectic time. She had to close the rest of the overhead bins, check luggage, do the safety schpeel, listen to 20 other requests, and get the beverages and snacks ready for after we're airborne. I didn't see her for a while, but knew she wouldn't leave me hanging like old Triple Tooth did in Orlando.

The next thing I knew, the plane was backing up and I still wasn't buckled in. The flight attendant zipped by chucking things to her left and right while chanting "sorry for the wait, honey," trying to fulfill all earlier requests as she dashed up the aisle to take her seat. As she blew by me, she handed me a pillow the size of a bag of marshmallows.

I tried to stop her and tell her I didn't think a tiny pillow was going to fix my issue. I needed a seatbelt extender or a rope. The least she could have done was shrink wrap me in the seat. But she just hauled ass to her place up front so, God forbid, she wasn't taking off without her seatbelt on.

At this point, I was yearning to stay on the ground, where ad slogans for seatbelt use preached "Click it or ticket." Maybe this airline's policy was "Ticket. Can't click it? Fuck it!"

It was too late now. I was going to have to rough it out. Standing up at this point and announcing there was a problem probably would have gotten me shot by an air marshall, who thought I was some deranged prick with explosive shoes. So I just hugged my pillow and awaited certain Doom.

As the plane roared down the runway, I had flashbacks to the Doctor Doom ride. Only this time there was no metal frame to hold on to. I couldn't grip the food tray because it had to be stowed in its upright position. I moved the pillow to my lap, hoping it would cushion my balls if we hit a pocket of turbulence that would send me flying into orbit.

A little over an hour later, it was over. Granted, I had almost lost my mind on that flight like William Shatner on that Twilight Zone episode "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet." But, like the Doom ride, I ended up safely on the ground after all despite that dangling seatbelt. I was, however, still as white as a sheet when The Rockette arrived in the airport's passenger pick-up area.

Rockette: "How was the flight?"

Me: "Let's put it this way... After the plane landed, I was so happy to be on the ground safe and sound that I didn't just want to kiss the ground. I almost fucked it."

Groundhog Day Not As Nutty This Year

2006-02-02T04:06:00.000-08:00

My favorite February 2nd furball will crawl out of his hole this morning in Punxatawney, Pa., and get quite a shock. Winter's already over. It almost feels like it never started. He won't even have to go through with the shadow bullshit.

Unfortunately, one of the warmest Januarys in United States weather history won't make Groundhog's Day all warm and fuzzy. It came a year too late. Poor Punxsutawney Phil froze his nuts off last year.

"It was the strangest thing," one witness said. "He came out of his hole last year and sniffed out a spot on a stump to stand. Then he saw his shadow and simultaneously saw two small shadows drop from between his stumpy legs. In an instant, he became Punxsutawney Phyllis."

Phyllis couldn't just wake up in bed to Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe" and start his day over like Bill Murray did in that zany Groundhog Day movie. This was Pennsylvania, not Hollywood. Those nuts weren't coming back.

"I had told Matt and Katie that morning it was cold enough to freeze the balls off of a brass monkey," Al Roker said. "So naturally, that groundhog's nuts never had a chance."

Legend says when the groundhog sees its shadow, it scares the critter back into its hole, signaling 6 more weeks of winter. Last year, after seeing the shadows of his own nuts freezing off, Phil slipped into a 6-month coma.

Phyllis has recovered in time to participate in today's event. One thing's certain: If a shadow resembling Abe Lincoln is seen, the groundhog can count on at least 6 continuous hours of being dry humped by a bunch of dudes wearing stovepipe hats.

The cold spot

2006-01-24T03:35:00.000-08:00

Mom never put much faith in medicine or doctors. The only doctors she liked were the ones on TV that she didn't have to see in person like Marcus Welby or Trapper John.

When Mom was sick, she always had faith she would be healed by some miracle. This has me convinced that in a former life Mom was healed of some dreaded disease by Jesus himself, hence her lack of faith in any medical practice.

"I'll be OK, really," was her famous line during any medical episode, no matter how serious or minor. "I'm fine. Let's see what it's like tomorrow. I'm sure I'll be fine."

A cold? No doctor. Horrible flu and 105-degree fever? No doctor. Gunshot wounds to the arm and torso? No doctor. You get the picture.

She wouldn't even take Pepto Bismol when she had the runs. She would just mutter she'd be OK in a couple of days, laying on the bathroom floor shivering with her pants around her ankles. Another time, I'm positive Mom had pnuemonia. She should have been hooked up to a ventilator. Her breathing sounded like a jacuzzi. But instead of calling 911, she decided she would just drink and extra glass of orange juice or two and go to bed a couple of hours earlier.

Even if Mom had both of her arms torn off in some bizarre dishwasher mishap, she would opt to treat herself at home. She'd probably just lie down on the couch for a while, making sure to elevate what was left of her arms.

"It's OK, they're just my arms, they'll probably grow back," she'd whisper, acting as if they were a pair of salamander tails. "If not, they'll just scab over and heal up. I'll just make due with these stubs."

Even for a simple headache, Mom would not take aspirin. Instead, she would just wander around the house like an anvil had been recently dropped on her head. She has the pain threshold of a Terminator.

How far would Mom take her boycott against medicine? I joked around with her a lot, but then she shocked me a few years back on a trip to the dentist. She needed three cavities filled and chose not to take the novocain shots. The dentist pleaded with her but Mom was on the no pain, no gain plan.

This made me wonder what would happen if she ever needed a leg amputated. Maybe she would insist on the Old West way: Take a shot of whiskey, bite into an apple and give the doctor a hacksaw.

I don't know where Mom developed this attitude because the rest of the family is fine with mass amounts of drugs during medical treatment. Our medicine cabinet would make Tom Cruise fall off of Oprah's couch. Mom's medicine cabinet is as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

When I was too young to make my own medical decisions, Mom would sometimes insist on trying her home remedies. Her most famous prescription was for injured limbs, bruises, etc.

"Put it on a cold spot in your bed when you go to sleep," she'd say. "That always works."

In the 100 or so times Mom suggested this treatment, it only worked once. For some reason when I was 8, my sprained ankle was able to locate the mythical cold spot Mom always spoke of. I have never been able to find it since.

When I was 15 I wiped out on my bike and hit my nuts on the crossbar. After laying on the street twitching for a couple of hours and vomiting, I was able to stagger home. Mom's remedy for the swollen family jewels? You guessed it - the cold spot.

I was desperate for relief from the pain, but the search for the cold spot was in vain. I must have tried more positions in bed that day than Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. But I could not find the cold spot. We were out of ice, so that wasn't an option. I considered emptying out the refrigerator and sleeping there, but settled for something inside of it instead.

From that day on, a couple of beers became my cold spot.

The Fat Is In The Fire

2006-01-11T21:22:00.000-08:00

Well, it's that time of year again. My wife and I had to decide what our New Year's Resolution is. Yes, we know it's the 11th of January... maybe next year our resolution will be to give up procrastination and actually do it on the first.

The bottom line: We're sick of every day being Fat Tuesday. So, we've decided it's time to pull our firehosey feeding tubes. Don't worry, we won't die. It will actually help us live longer.

It's time. We're huge. I'm 6-foot-3 and weigh 335 pounds. I won't disclose my wife's weight because I actually want to live to see the thinner me. :-) We've both been overweight for most of our lives, but we each had one shining moment in our past where we lost a wide load of weight only to gain it back and then some later.

It finally hit me. When my doctor called me "morbidly obese," I think it was his nice way of telling me "You are so fucking fat it's scary." When he was giving me the usual speech about my size making me more at risk for heart disease, strokes, diabetes, arthritis, etc., I finally decided even though I ate like a competitive eater I was never going to turn pro. My killer appetite was probably just that, and it was time to do something about it.

We're not really sure if we're going to even follow a specific diet like Adkins or South Beach. We're just going to quit eating like termites in a lumber yard and add an exercise regimin. That should lose some lard.

Sure, there are a few quicker fixes out there, like going under the knife and doing the gastric bypass thing. I just can't do that. It has taken me years to perfect my digestive system into the farting machine it is, and I just can't throw that all away by having part of my intestines altered. Besides, I guess I feel I have to try losing weight the old-fashioned way before ever opting for surgery.

If only it would be as easy as that Stephen King book. Find a gypsy woman, piss her off, and the next thing you know you're Thinner thanks to being cursed.

An even better option would be to somehow donate all this baby fat to some Nip & Tuck-esque plastic surgery specialist. Surely Hollywood could use my blubber to make Angelina Jolie's lips puffier.
Or, better yet, split my beer gut in half and wow would those be some nice hooters (ironically partially built with beer and hot wings - maybe some lucky wannabe waitress could be the lucky recipient of a rack reminiscent of Pam Anderson).

Why diet now? What finally pushed me over the edge after being over 300 pounds for the last 7 years? Is it because I've blown out more pairs of pants than tires on my car? Well, not really. But it's part of the addition in the equation. I guess I can't really pin it on any one thing, but I did come up with 10 contributing factors...

10. For starters, I've been Party Size for an awfully long time. It's not that I long to be Fun Size, I just worry that I eventually might cross over to Family Size or Economy Size. But the King Size warning was accidentally heckling "You pansy ass! I can eat five times that much!" while watching the documentary Super Size Me at a local theater, sitting between a popcorn tub the size of a wastebasket and a party ball of Coke.

9. I feel dirty even when I shop for clothes. I really get looks when I ask the sales clerks if they "have anything in XXX?" It's as if I'm perusing the porno section of the video store. I try to reassure them that the only hardcore penetration in my future is trying to stuff my monster drumsticks inside the pant legs of the outfit I'm about to try on.

8. Someone suggested I make a toast at a New Year's Eve party, so I immediately went to the kitchen and looked for bread and some peanut butter. After my impromptu snack, I was pretty embarassed coming back into the room seeing all of these people waiting with their glasses hoisted going "What the fuck?!"

7. My wife wanted to get crazy and do a body shot off of me at said New Year's Eve party. She poured a 1.75 jug of Jack Daniels whiskey on me but didn't even get a lick. Apparently I'm also super absorbent, like Spongebob Squarepants.

6. I used to laugh at those geeks who would camp out overnight just to be the first in line to purchase tickets to a Star Wars movie, etc. Deep down, I kind of understood their obsession as I camped overnight to be first in line at the grand opening of an Old Country Buffet.

5. I am against Jell-O wrestling of any form and have even picketed events. I know one of their advertising slogans is "watch it wiggle," but this is taking it too far. Not because it's sexist, but because it's a waste of perfectly good Jell-O.

4. Some of my pants look like low-riders, but they aren't. My big ass just doesn't fit in them. I wish I could convince myself I am "in" with fashion a la Heidi Klum and that I'm wearing Levi's Plumber's Cut. But the truth is I have to take precautions before bending over so I don't have people behind me saying "Just say no to crack!"

3. My wife and I went to a salsa dancing class with a big-ass bag of tortilla chips. Some chick who thought she was Kelly Monaco got all pissy when I accidentally dribbled chunky chipotle on her cha-cha gown. I really thought it was left-dunk-right-bite, but I must have mixed it up.

2. I knew I had hit rock-bottom when I started running at cakewalks. The addiction started out with normal walking, but then slowly progressed to skips and then light jogging. Before I knew it, I was just sprinting to try to land on the magic number and score that sweet seven-layer cake.

Of course, when the cakewalk judge saw a 335-pound man running faster than Randy Moss, she thought my performance was enhanced. I wasn't on steroids! I'm a clean cakewalker. I proved it when the only artificial things found in my piss test were blue #2, red #40, and yellow #5 and #6. So there.

1. What finally pushed me over the edge was when my wife and I went to the grocery store yesterday. I spotted an Us Weekly, featuring a cover of Lindsay Lohan wearing a bikini above a "Diet Secrets" headline. Contrary to what other magazines have been reporting, the secret wasn't tickling her tonsils with her index finger.

That's kind of a relief. Because bulimia is not a funny thing. I should know. I have more eating disorders than I can count. Example: I'm half bulimic. I've got the binging part down. I just can't follow through with the purging.

So wish my wife and me luck. This is a huge step for us. It sure as hell won't be a cakewalk. There'll be plenty of walking around in circles, but there's a fat chance we'll be rewarded with a cake when the music stops. We'll get used to it.

Brokeback Burrito Line

2006-01-06T15:15:00.000-08:00

I try to be as polite as I can be in public, but sometimes people make me eavesdrop. They don't hold a gun to my head, but they talk so loudly about a subject, I can't help but be involved in the discussion whether I like it or not. Sometimes I'm able to bite my lip and weather the verbal storm. Other nights, I'm not so lucky and just have to speak up.

A prime example of this happened while waiting in line at the Chipotle Thursday night. I was stuck behind a couple of guys whose voices carried like motivational speakers. Their intimate conversation was more like a lecture to the entire restaurant.

"I gotta tell you something, but you gotta promise you won't laugh at me," the tall guy wearing the bright blue old school Minnesota Timberwolves jacket and matching pants that made him look more like a peacock than a basketball fan told his buddy.

"Spill it, man," his portly friend with the shaggy sideburns said.

"I got totally duped into going to see a movie that was a million times worse than a chick flick," Peacock said.

"What?" Pork Chops asked. "Some foreign crap with subtitles?"

"That would have been cool compared to this," Peacock sniffed. "Now before I tell you, keep in mind I was totally deceived by my girlfriend."

"Sure, sure..." Pork Chops reassured him.

"Well, she told me it was going to be a western," Peacock said. "I was really excited. Westerns aren't made much anymore. I hadn't heard of any good ones coming out but I had just watched Tombstone again so I was totally stoked."

"There's a western movie out now?" Pork Chops asked, scratching his head.

"Hardly! She took me to fucking Brokeback Mountain!" Peacock screeched.

"Brokeback Mountain?!" Pork Chops shrieked. "Isn't that some kinda gay movie?"

"Yes it's totally gay!" Peacock said. "I ain't shittin' ya. It's about these two gay cowboys who knock boots one night, but then try to act like they liked chicks all along and get married and stuff. What a bunch of bullshit!"

"Wow, that's messed up," Pork Chops said.

"Tell me about it!" Peacock said. "I mean, who's heard of a gay cowboy? There's never been one!!"

I was stunned. Not about the movie's content, and certainly not about whether or not cowboys had life pardners. Just the fact that this guy didn't know that the movie included homosexuality. It would be like not knowing Liberace used to play the piano.

"Yeah, why does Hollywood have to make everything so gay?!" Pork Chop yipped.

The short African American man standing in front of me with the perfectly manicured nails, black platform boots and purple velour coat shifted in his spot uncomfortably. I figured he either A) liked the movie, B) was possibly homosexual, or C) was Prince. I decided at some point I would have to become involved in this silly little discussion.

"Think about all the cowboy movies and you can't find one gay cowboy," Peacock complained. "Eastwood? Bein' gay wouldn't make his day! Lee Van Cleef? Don't show him the beef. John Wayne? Fuck no!"

"No, no, no!" Pork Chop chirped. "And that famous cowboy song is called Home on the Range, not Homo on the Range. It's where the deer and antelopes play, not gays."

"Oh, come on," I finally interrupted. "You guys are kidding, right? Do you really care if there was a gay cowboy? Because surely there was at least one at some point in history. Heck, there might even be a gay Dallas Cowboy right now."

"No way!" Peacock said, spinning to address the line. "If anyone can show me proof of a gay cowboy in the entire entertainment industry, I'd pay you $100 right now! My money's safe because there's never been a gay cowboy. Ever."

"Ahhh, hold on just a sec, you might want to start fishing for that Benjamin," I said. "What about that dude from the Village People?"

Prince and most of the people in line erupted in laughter. Peacock's proud strut stopped. He unzipped his jacket. Either he was feeling the heat or it was an attempt to puff out his plume and attract even more attention.

"Village People?" Peacock asked. "You're screwed. They had an indian, not a cowboy."

"Not so fast," I said. "Yes, there was a Native American. But there was also a cowboy."

"Bullshit," Peacock said, rolling his eyes back trying to remember the YMCA video. "We know there was the indian. The lead singer was that cop. Then there was the biker guy... a construction worker... and some military guy."

"And?" I said, loving that I had this homophobe concentrating on every member of the Village People.

"Shit," Peacock said. "There was a cowboy."

"Yeah, it don't git no gayer than the Village People," Pork Chops agreed.

"Sorry buddy," I said. "I tell you what. I'll cut you a deal. Buy everyone in line who had to listen to you babble bullshit a burrito and we'll call it even on the $100."

"That's a load of crap," Peacock said. "You cheated. I meant there's no gay cowboys in movies. Some gay guy who dresses like a cowboy and sings don't count."

I reached at straw hats trying to come up with a potentially gay cowboy. All I could think of was that dude from Urban Cowboy who wore the mesh T-shirt to the honky tonk bar. And maybe cartoon horse Quick Draw McGraw. I was totally stumped and disappointed I couldn't keep pushing Peacock's buttons.

"What about The Lone Ranger?" Prince suddenly asked. "He wears a powder blue jumpsuit, a red scarf and a sexy little Mardi Gras mask. Does that sound like the wardrobe of a straight cowboy?"

"Hey, he rides Silver, not Tonto," Peacock said. "He's not gay. Or is he? No! Kemo Sabe ain't indian for gay. I think. Oh, crap, maybe he is gay!"

"Ha ha, don't sweat it, baby, I was teasing you," Prince giggled. "The Lone Ranger is not gay. I can guarantee you a gay cowboy would not be caught dead wearing a white hat after Labor Day."

Coupon craziness creates riotous results

2006-01-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

Note to self: When a local grocery store offers a $10 off coupon with a $50 purchase, be sure to dress appropriately for the event. In riot gear!

If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the end of the world was coming yesterday morning. It was like the nuclear missiles had been launched and everyone had 10 minutes to buy survival items and rush back to their fallout shelters. It was total chaos and there was some light destruction inside the store.

That coupon was a master marketing plan. You would not believe how many idiots were in the store saying stuff like "We're only at $37, for the love of God Mabel find something that costs over $13!!!"

People were running amok, smoking out displays and each other so they could grab the last of the TGI Fridays frozen appetizers and the pizza that was on special for 6 for $10 (I think I got food poisoning just reading the sign!). I thought this kind of shit only happened at Toys R Us in the Cabbage Patch Kids aisle, but I actually saw two guys nearly come to blows over the last box of frozen jalapeno cheese poppers.

From what I heard, one guy took it out of the freezer even though the guy 3 carts away had his eye on it! To make matters worse, the same guy had also lifted the last two boxes of potato skins from the case, leaving the appetizer shelves almost as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. It escalated when one guy said he needed them so he and his buddies could watch the football bowl games and the other needed them for his wife's annual New Year's Tupperware party. When the football guy told the Tupperware guy he was whipped and should get the chicken quesadillas instead, the frozen section went to Defcon 4.

Luckily an alert stock boy, who overheard the physical threats looming, brought out a few more boxes and was able to broker a peace accord in the frozen appetizer area. After the two food psychos went on to fight other battles, I jokingly suggested to the stock boy that he tell them to shop at separate ends of the store just in case there was only one tub of nacho dip left in the potato chip aisle.

Meanwhile, one lady went apeshit in the cereal aisle as she had filled her cart with about two dozen boxes of Kellogg's and General Mills cereals, then saw Malt-O-Meal was going for 4 for $6. She was about the size of Reggie White, so she basically reached in her cart and picked up all the boxes at once and chucked them on top of a cracker box pyramid, smoked it out, then dumped about 20 bags of Tootie Frooties and Marshmallow Mateys in her cart and bolted. The aisle looked like Billy Joel had missed a turn in the parking lot and drove through that aisle of the store doing 100 MPH.

One poor bastard looked like he had every ailment in the book. The way he was coughing and bobbing and weaving, I thought they would be asking him if he wanted a plastic or paper body bag when he left the store. I wondered if I would hear an announcement saying "cleanup in aisle 6, corpse near the canned soup." This guy had a medicine cabinet in his cart. I hope he doesn't have all these ailments at once, but he looked like he had it all judging from his appearance and the items in his cart. He had medicine for: The shits (must be a really bad case because he had two bottles of Pepto and a box of Immodium), jock itch, athlete's foot, a corn that needs to be removed, another corn that needs to be "held" (who's corn needs a hug?!), a headache, a cold sore, a sinus issue he plans to attack with Vicks vapor rub, and hemorrhoids. Oh, I guess he also had a 1/2 gallon of milk and a pack of juicy fruit in his cart, because everyone knows gum negates all other odd purchases. And he still spent more than I did!

Despite all these obstacles, I was able to sanely shop and get what we needed at home. I kicked ass and took the cashier's name. It was LaShonda. I really had to turn on the charm because after waiting in line for 35 minutes, she put her little "this lane is closed" sign up when I reached the conveyor belt. She shook her head and struck a "talk to the hand" pose.

She told me her lane was closed but I told her it was my New Year's resolution to only go to the best-looking cashier's line from now on and she would make me break it on my first day (OK, I was being more dishonest than Scott Peterson, but I didn't want to go wait in another line for 30 more minutes and then get shafted again!). I wasn't sure this worked at first, so then I told her I originally had 10 items in my cart, but then bought 11 more because she wasn't running a 20-items-or-less express lane. She smiled, showing me her 4 lovely gold-capped teeth, and said "OK, baby, one more" and then stonewalled the old bat behind me!

Anyway, I saved $16.38 ($77.72 worth only cost me $61.34) thanks to my small stash of coupons including the $10 one. I also bagged my groceries in record time just in case LaShonda mistook my stupid "grocery lines" as an attempt to "bag" her.

Husband Makes Dip of Himself

2005-12-28T15:50:00.000-08:00

Husbands can be real dips sometimes. My wife was reminded of this recently while dining out with me at a new downtown grill.

The ambiance was very impressive, thanks to a truckload of money spent on renovations. But the speed of the wait staff's service was reminiscent of a snail with a limp. The menu looked interesting though, featuring several wood-grilled items.

"Mmmmm, mushroom dip," I gurgled like Homer Simpson while reviewing the choices on the menu.

My wife thought it was a little odd at first that I was considering mushroom dip for a meal, but she also kept in mind that this was her husband. She knew I could make a meal out of anything.

About an hour later, the waitress finally brought the food out. From what I've been told, I looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi. The food looked good, but something was wrong.

"What do you think so far?" I mumbled, obviously a bit irritated.

"Ummm, it's good I guess," my wife shrugged. "Why do you ask?"

"Why?" I replied. "Isn't it obvious? What the hell is this?"

My wife looked down at my piping hot vat of mushroom dip. Nothing appeared to be wrong or out of place.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is there a hair in it or something?"

"No," I said. "I'll tell you what's wrong: I ordered a mushroom dip."

"Yeah?" my wife asked. "And?"

"Those bastards," I said. "I thought I had ordered a sandwich."

"A sandwich?" my wife choked, starting to laugh hysterically.

"Yeah, you know, a mushroom dip," I said. "I thought it would be like a French dip."

After laughing for 20 minutes, my wife was finally able to regain her composure enough to resume the conversation.

"You thought mushroom dip was going to be a sandwich?" my wife snorted. "A bunch of mushrooms on a bun that you'd dip in au jus? C'mon! You're kidding, right? Don't tell me you think artichoke dip is a sandwich, too!"

I then explained how I'd envisioned either a regular mushroom sandwich that you'd dip in cream of mushroom soup, or a huge portobello mushroom sandwich that you'd dip in marinara. But all I got was a vat of mushroom dip and a piece of flat bread. Oh, and a side of fries that would have been much better with a sandwich.

After this incident, my wife now thinks I might be high on mushrooms of a different sort.

A Christmas Story For The Dogs

2005-12-19T20:25:00.000-08:00

One of the best stories out of my family's Christmas past involves my sister Bubbles. It's a classic that's truly for the dogs.

For those of you who don't know, one of the biggest traditions in my family is to get other family members to fall for bogus stories we make up. Dad and I are usually the storytellers while Mom and Bubbles are usually the gullible victims.

It's more fun than riding in a one-horse open sleigh, if you ask Dad or me.

Anyway, Bubbles' dog day afternoon started when she came back to Fargo for Christmas break in 1995. As soon as she walked in the door, Dad decided to have a little fun with her.

He told her that Mom finally broke down and let him bring home the Christmas present he always wanted: A bulldog named "Shorty."

Of course, Bubbles fell in love with the bulldog she hadn't seen yet. But the story got better.

"Where is he?" Bubbles squeaked. "I wanna pet him. Ooohhhh, Shoooorrrrrrttttyyyyy!"

Then Dad got a look of deep sorrow on his face like he had just witnessed the Hindenberg disaster.

"No... he's not here anymore," Dad sniffed. "We couldn't keep him."

Bubbles' jaw dropped. "Oh, no! But why? Was he sick?"

How Dad kept a straight face for his reply I'll never know.

"Well, we had to bring him back because he was snoring and farting all the time," Dad said. "Mom just didn't want him around the house."

"But you guys do that stuff around the house all the time," Bubbles giggled. "Why hasn't she gotten rid of you and Rocky, too?"

Dad chuckled a little, and even imitated how Shorty walked when he had gas. "Yeah, I know. I guess I thought Mom would kind of get used to him after a while like she did with Rocky and me. But it didn't work... we didn't have Shorty long enough..."

"Waitaminute," Bubbles snapped. "You're pulling my leg, right?"

Dad just rolled his eyes and threw his arms up in the air.

"Made it up?" Dad said. "Now who the hell would make up a story that we couldn't keep a dog because it farted too much?"

Bubbles though for a moment. "OK, I believe you," she said. "Well, what did you have to do... give him away?"

"Well, we tried..." Dad choked. "But... no one wanted a dog like that."

Bubbles really started looking concerned now. "Well, did you have to give him to the humane society, then?"

"Well... even they wouldn't take a dog like that," Dad said. "We had no choice but to put him to sleep."

"WHAT??!!!" Bubbles yelled. "You put Shorty to sleep just because he farted and snored?!!!!"

"No! Gotcha!" Dad laughed. "And Merry Christmas!"

Breakfast of Champions My Ass

2005-12-12T09:22:00.000-08:00

The pro athletes that have been featured on the cereal box cover all seemed to confirm the same thing: If you eat Wheaties before a big sporting event, you will be a winner.

Breakfast of Champions my ass!

Every time I've eaten Wheaties hoping it will enhance my athletic abilities, it ends up being the shittiest performance of my life. Literally. I end up spending more time in the bathroom than I do participating in the sporting event.

How do these pro athletes do it? If they're eating their Wheaties as much as they say they do, they must have soiled themselves multiple times by the time they're hoisting up those championship trophies.

I'm surprised the Wheaties box cover folks don't get double endorsement deals and have their pictures plastered on Depends packages, too.

Take Sunday. I was going bowling with some buddies of mine later that afternoon. Granted, none of us are professional bowlers like those guys in the movie Kingpin. But still, we're somewhat competitive and do have beer frames, so it's important to bring a little game.

I figured three or four bowls of Wheaties in the morning would whip my game into shape quickly. After all, it helped Bruce Jenner win the gold medal in the 1976 Olympic decathlon. It probably also helped him father six kids.

Well, the Wheaties whipped my ass into shape all right. I was doing pretty good for the first five frames. A strike, three spares and an open 9 put me at an 86 after my first roll in the sixth. Unfortunately, my first roll in that frame also left me with a 7-10 split. Could my Wheaties consumption help me pick up the spare?

Not even close, although I did manage to "split the uprights." Coincidentally, that 7-10 split also marked the beginning of a 7-10 shit. I had to run to the bathroom so much during the seventh through 10th frames, my game literally went down the toilet. I ended with a 123, easily clinching last place.

This butt blugeoning made me wonder: How did Jenner make it through the decathlon without changing shorts at least 10 times? Surely, he would have lost control of his bowels during some of the events, especially the triple jump. Hop, skip and jump my ass. More like hop, skip and dump!

How did Tom Brady lead his team to three Super Bowl victories in four years when he should have been struggling to "win" the Tidy Bowl after every offensive series?

Something tells me that if Michael Jordan really ate Wheaties before gametime, he still would have been hanging on the rim with his tongue hanging out. The only problem is, he'd be on the toilet, not the basketball court.

Somehow these athletes battled through high fiber intake and still became champions. After what I went through in a comparatively meaningless bowling outing, they truly have my respect and admiration.

When the Boston Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and the Chicago White Sox did it in 2005, there's no doubt a lot of people thought "No shit?!" Well, now I think we all know the answer to that question.

And those brown stains on their pants? Don't let them fool you into thinking they came from sliding into second base!

Cat Scratch Fever

2005-12-05T21:57:00.000-08:00

Ted Nugent's famous song has been stuck in my head for the last couple of days.

It all started when I brought some junk upstairs to the attic Sunday. Some day, I'd like to make the attic into a master suite, but now it's a dumping ground for shit we don't know what to do with (that comes in handy when company is coming).

Anyway, I lugged some things up there and was in its only "room." I was supposed to be alone, but felt like someone or something was watching me. I turned and saw one of our cats, Ringo, sniffing around.

Shit! I had to get him out of there. The attic has a lot of exposed insulation and even worse, I'm not sure what kinds of nooks and crannies my spelunker kitty could fall into.

I rushed out to grab him, then saw Frankie, our female kitty (pictured at left). She's older and is supposed to know better. Not this day.

So I tried to nudge her down the steps with my foot while carrying Ringo, figuring the overly curious male needed the most restraint. I got about halfway down the stairs, which are so steep, they are almost like climbing a ladder. Frankie all of a sudden started getting sneaky and was trying to scoot by my leg. I realized she was now more trouble than Ringo, so I ditched him on the steps, and nabbed Frankie just as she had almost made it to the top.

Ringo started heading up the stairs again and at this point I realized I wasn't going to be able to juggle kitties for long. I called out to my wife who was on the main floor watching TV. Somehow she heard me yell for something and started running up the stairs, shouting "What?!!" All of the commotion got Frankie tensed up. I felt her muscles flex and her kitty claws come out. Her transformation into hellcat was almost complete. All she needed was one more noise to put her over the edge. I tried to creep down the stairs as if I was carrying feline nitroglycerin.

My wife opened the attic door very quickly, which made an unfamiliar sound. The last nail in the kitty coffin had just been hammered in. Frankie dumped a payload of piss on her unsuspecting brother below with a little bit nailing my hands and shirt. It was a lot of piss. It was like she was one of those helicopters that picks up a big load of water and then dumps it on a forest fire.

Ringo (pictured at left) just froze on the steps, trying to figure out why he was the recipient of this golden shower. Meanwhile, Frankie was totally freaking out and started to claw her way up my shoulder. She practically peeled my T-shirt off, but it just bunched up around my neck. I was more worried that she might fall and get hurt on the stairs than what damage her claws would do to me, so I just kind of let nature take its course.

Next thing I know, Frankie is clawing at me like Wolverine turning an enemy into a scratching post. It's like my back was a slippery floor and she had those claws dancing all over looking for traction. When she did find her paws, she tore up my back a bit more and gained about 3-4 inches. Finally she was able to jump off my back and up onto the third story floor.

When it was over it looked like I tried to break up a fight between Roy and his tiger, Montecore. The scratches were so deep I doubt even Siegfried would have been able to make them disappear.

My wife turned into a nurse, cleaning my wounds and applying an immense amount of neosporin. She also told me Frankie spared Blue, the affectionate name I gave to the bull tattoo I got about 13 years ago. She then gave Ringo a bath and settled Frankie's nerves. Soon all was back to normal at Rocky's residence.

Luckily, my wife saw the incident happen, so she wouldn't suspect the following: 1) The scratches came from the hands of some pussycat doll from St. Paul's Frogtown area; or 2) Halle Berry went slumming in her Catwoman outfit and found me.

As far as the back attack, I forgave and forgot. Frankie didn't mean it, she was just a "fraidy cat." The bottom line is I'd rather have a pain in the back pet than a pain in the ass pet any day.

Happy Anniversary, Jackass

2005-11-28T22:19:00.000-08:00

My parents recently celebrated their 42nd wedding anniversary. To commemorate the event, I thought I'd share a story I wrote about them three years ago with the blogosphere...

The lovebirds began their 39th wedding anniversary like many other couples do. It's how they ended it that left me scratching my head.

Dad started off the day by leaving a dozen roses for Mom to find in the refrigerator. Later that evening, they shared a romantic candlelit dinner at a nice restaurant, exchanged cards and gifts. They were well on their way to a perfect evening.

Then they went to see the movie Jackass.

"We didn't even know it was a TV show," Dad said. "We'd never heard of Jackass."

Added Mom: "I thought it might be a heart-warming movie about a mule, kind of like Walt Disney's Gus. But I should have known it was trouble when the ticket seller laughed that a 58-year-old woman said 'Two for Jackass, please.'"

For others who don't know, or live in a Footloose-esque town that doesn't allow dancing, Jackass started out and still is a half-hour stunt comedy show on MTV. The movie featured stuff that was too gross to show on regular TV.

The craziest stunts performed by Johnny Knoxville and the rest of the creative yet demented Jackass cast included:

1. A guy going into a hardware store and taking a dump in one of the floor model display toilets.

2. A guy who shoved a matchbox car up his colon, then went to the doctor for X-rays (a T-shirt of the X-ray is one of the many movie collectibles available).

3. Countless stunts that involved trauma to the testicles.

Not the type of movie people with senior citizen discount privileges tend to go see in general, let alone on their anniversary. But leave it to my Mom and Dad to mistake Jackass for a romantic comedy.

They were fish out of water in the theatre and wanted to bail, but Mom didn't want to be impolite and leave while others were trying to enjoy the flick. So she spent most of the 87 minutes with her eyes covered like a kid in a horror movie, occasionally asking Dad "Is it OK to look yet?"

"We had no idea it was going to be that kind of movie," Mom said. "We just heard some critic on the radio give it a really good review."

Apparently it was some local jackass critic from Fargo, not Roger Ebert. Mom didn't know the critic's name, but chances are he wouldn't like Citizen Kane or Casablanca because no one got kicked in the nuts, threw up, or drove toy cars up their asshole.

"What made it so awful was the fact they weren't acting," Mom said, trembling. "It was real. They did such terrible things to their bodies, I couldn't stand to watch. I spent most of the time with my coat over my head."

Dad said the anti-chick flick probably wouldn't receive any Oscar consideration with the exception of maybe a best supporting actor nod to the guy who pinched a loaf in the plumbing section.

"Guys crapping, barfing and kicking each other in the balls - they call that a movie?" Dad asked. "When's the last time you saw Paul Newman take a shit in public or Robert Redford try to stick a Tonka truck up his ass, then try to make a movie out of it?"

I'd never seen it, but chances are Mom would want to see it if the macabre movie actually starred those two actors. She still thinks they're hotties. Knoxville, Steve O and the rest of the Jackass gang were a different story.

"Did you at least like Wee Man?" I asked, thinking the cast's little person might have been a tiny bright spot to the ordeal.

"Wee Man?" Dad wondered. "I don't remember him. Why do they call him that? He must have pissed on someone and I missed it."

Mom was particularly horrified when the Jackass cast stuffed fireworks up their rear ends and detonated them. Equally disturbing to her were the guys who tied "bottle rockets to their dongs."

"They call those things bottle rockets for a reason," Mom said. "The ass isn't meant to be a launching pad, and a dong can't head into space without the rest of the astronaut!"

Dad summed up the whole event nicely: "We've seen a lot of shit in 39 years together. Jackass ranked right up there. But if we can make it through that movie, we can make it through anything."

Give My Wife a Hand (Turkey)

2005-11-25T00:16:00.000-08:00

I ate enough yesterday to feed a third world country. I didn't mean to, but my wife and mother-in-law made such a spectacular Thanksgiving Day meal, it just sort of happened. I felt like that anaconda that swallowed the alligator most of the night. Thankfully, I haven't met the same fate and burst open yet.

I do have one other worry. They say eating turkey makes you tired. If that's the case, I may end up being a real-life Rip Van Winkle. If I don't post for 20 years, you'll know why.

Besides feasting and frolicking with family, Thanksgiving brings out another tradition in me. I'm a pretty crafty fella and every time the holidays roll around, I get flashbacks of doing grade school projects. I usually perform these tasks for fun and to surprise my wife. She loves it when I make her handmade cards, and doing one would keep me out of the potential food coma for a little while longer.

I only met her when I was 28, so she never knew me as little Rocky. But I'm still a big kid at heart, so I make her warm and fuzzy handmade stuff (usually out of construction paper) on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, etc., so she knows what she would have gotten from me on those holidays if we had known each other in grade school. Hopefully she would have loved me back then no matter how many cooties I had.

This year, I made her a "Hand Turkey" again. If you are unfamiliar with these, it is where a first or second grade teacher would have you place your hand on a brown piece of construction paper and spread out your fingers. Then you would draw an outline of your hand before cutting it out.

The spread fingers are supposed to be the turkey's feathers. The thumb is supposed to be the head. Then you decorate your Hand Turkey according to kiddie fashion sense.

Check out my 2005 creation. And you know what they say about guys who make big-ass hand turkeys. ;-D

I gave it to my wife and excitedly told her I made it all by myself with no help from my parents. She was so proud of it; she hung it up on our refrigerator. She was also impressed that I used safety scissors, cleaned up my mess from the dining room table and hadn't eaten any paste (it would have spoiled my appetite).

I like making cards for my wife because I usually don't fare well in trips to the Hallmark store. I can't ever seem to find cards that tell her what I want to say. Then again, maybe that shouldn't be a surprise. I say some pretty goofy shit.

I've made some other construction paper masterpieces for her since we've been together. Two of her other favorites follow...

First, I present this lovely Valentine I made for her in 2003. It is a big bumblebee that features the punny phrase "Bee Mine." That one really gave her a buzz.

I'd like to go into Martha Stewart's office and throw that card on her desk and say "You don't need your Apprentice TV show to recruit talent for your company. I think my bumblebee resume speaks for itself. I wrote 'Bee Mine' with Egyptian crayons and the paper is yellow-dyed papyrus. I am one crafty fucker. Hire me."

Second, there's the Valentine I made for my wife last February. It marked our seventh year together, and I was "itching" to do nothing but make her this card to show my love. I fashioned a heart to look like a shovel with the phrase "Seven years later and I still dig ya." She dug it.

She's a great sport, and she definitely tops my "What I'm Most Thankful For" list. I'm glad she appreciates my sense of humor and style.

She also always encourages me to keep pursuing my dream to write for a living some day (I actually did this as a journalist once - now I'm hoping for more of a David Sedaris or Chuck Klosterman type career). She suggested I start a blog, which has been a tremendous creative outlet for me. I'm so lucky she supports my dream and my attempts at humor writing.

So besides love her to death, the least I can do is make her a few silly little cards.

I'm also thankful to have an audience. In all honesty, when I started writing this blog, I figured only family and friends would read it. I never would have imagined I'd "meet" so many through this blog.

I have been truly stunned by the number of people who have visited my blog, and am even more surprised by the people who come back to read more. It is such a humbling compliment and at the same time a wonderful source of motivation to get this kind of support from people I have never met in person.

It really means the world to me to make people laugh or put a smile on faces through my writing. That is such a rewarding feeling. Especially when these same people are such talented artists of the written word themselves, and hook me on a daily basis with their work. If you can't tell, I really enjoy the blogosphere.

Thank you for reading, and commenting. I'm not sure how long it will take for me to "make it" as an author and get published, but I am certainly enjoying the journey so far.

Belated disclaimer: OK, sorry, I should have warned you that sometimes I am just like a maple tree. Big and sappy.

Follow That Bird Flu, Part 2

2005-11-23T00:40:00.000-08:00

Part one explored what would happen if Sesame Street aired a gloom and doom message about "Big Bird Flu," which could potentially ravage the globe and kill thousands (mostly children).

Due to Sesame Street and the Children's Television Workshop's uncanny ability to put their kiddie audience in the throng of real-life crisis issues, I thought of some additional character tie-ins to other actual health issues. Here's 10 more:

Kermit the Frog Warts - Despite what the tabloids claim, Kermit insists the warts around his mouth and on his tongue are just a skin condition caused by a "food allergy" and not the result of a tryst with a tainted toad in the swamp.

"I eat pigs in a blanket every morning before I get out of bed, so maybe it's that," Kermit admitted. "What can I say, it ain't easy bein' green."

Sesame Street News gossip columnists have pointed the finger at Miss Piggy, claiming promiscuous porking on the Pigs in Space set may have led to Kermit's ailment, which the couple vehemently denies.

No matter where the pesky pimples came from, they sure are a hassle. Luckily for Kermit, there's Valtrex. And it's gonna' be a brand new day once they figure out how to formulate that shit for frogs.

Guy Smiley Game Show Face - This illness only affects game-show hosts. It involves being such a work-aholic that you take your work home with you and that personality takes over your life. Smiley has it so bad he will introduce anyone he sees to the "studio audience" that is no longer there. He will yell "Yayyy!" and spew a lot of fake energy, all the while keeping a clownish grin permanently planted on his mug.

He tells his muppet friends to "come on down" rather than "come here" and he makes them answer stupid trivia questions for "points." When out shopping, he hands a store clerk a check for $1,000 and tells them he'll "take the ceramic dalmatian for $280 and put the rest on a gift certificate."

Instead of asking his muppet wife what she wants for dinner, he forces her to make a choice for what's behind door #1, door #2 or door #3. Then when she finally picks something, he tries to make her trade it for what's behind a curtain or a box. There is no known cure.

Typewriter Guy Typing - This is similar to "cutting," but even more macabre because the typewriter guy actually types messages onto himself. It starts out as depression, but eventually the paper is not enough to type on, so the machine alters himself so he can peck out messages on his arms or eyeballs. If he really wants to get a message across he'll type on the same spot over and over again for a bold statement. Therapy and white-out are usually enough to erase this illness.

Elmo Speech Impediment - This little red furball speaks in a falsetto voice and constantly refers to himself in the third person, as if he's a professional athlete. The need to sound squeaky gives him the compulsive need to spend the last 15 minutes every hour babbling bullshit about a place called Elmo's World. He is wildly popular despite these annoying traits.

He could be cured easily by working with a voice coach and a grammar teacher, but that would mean losing all the money from whoring himself out as any type of stuffed animal imaginable from Tickle Me to Chicken Dance.

Two-Headed Monster Split Personality Disorder - This is pretty much a freak of nature. It is much more complicated than a split personality within one mind. This monstrosity seems to have one body yet has two heads - possibly the result of some muppet inbreeding (does Sesame Street Unpaved mean up the dirt roads to Muppet Hillbilly Country?).

Each head has its own thoughts and agendas, which means the two heads have to work together to accomplish anything. This is easier said than done because the two heads can be bull-headed at times (they even have the horns to prove it). Both heads agree on one thing - Stuck on You with Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear sucked.

Beetlemania - This was a term coined for the mass music fan hysteria caused from the "insect invasion" and their hit songs "Letter B", "Thinking of U", and "Hey Food." Eventually, some Japanese muppet hooked up with one of the members and broke up the band.

Each of the quartet went on to have successful solo projects. The Lennonesque bug was eventually assassinated (stepped on, actually) by a crazed fan, but his music and the band's legend lives on.

Yip, Yip Men's Syndrome - This is 10 times worse than the ass-kissing ailment at the workplace known as "The Yes Man." The muppet version of this overly positive mental state had its name shortened because instead of just telling management a simple "Yes," the muppet martians go to the extreme and say "Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip, Uh-huuhhh, Uh-huuuhhh."

No matter how asinine the task, the "Yip Yip Men" will swear the task will be completed on time, even when they know damn well it won't. They do have one thing going for them: They can't be fired or these Martian muppets would tattle to the government about their "illegal alien" status.

Harvey Kneeslapper Injury - This obscure character was famous for his practical jokes, especially when he'd ask others if they "wanted one." When they said yes, he would slap a #1 on them and then laugh himself into a waterfall of tears, many times even soiling himself.

He laughed at his own jokes incessantly, and over-exuberant knee slapping led to complete tears of his ACL and MCL before the 1978 PBS season, ending his prankster career. Tragically, he pulled the same #1 gag on his surgeon and then died laughing in the operating room.

Forgetful Jones Muppet Alzheimer's - They called this clumsy cowboy "forgetful" because he usually forgot everything he wanted to do or say. That's putting it nicely. Too young for muppet senility, Jones is obviously showing symptoms of Alzheimer's Disease.

Maybe they'll finally get him the treatment he needs when he gets "forgetful" one morning, kissing his horse Buster goodbye before throwing a saddle on his girlfriend Clementine to take her for a ride.

Fat Blue Muppet-Pattern Baldness - It's bad enough that Fat Blue can't seem to get a decent waiter, taxi driver or other service employees to adequately serve his needs on Sesame Street. He's usually in a hurry and in a bad mood. To top it all off, he's bald - a rarity in the muppet world. Most bald humans had hair at some point. Fat Blue is bald because that's how he was made.

There's no Hair Club For Muppets to help him out, and he doesn't have enough hair of his own to perform radical hair replacement surgery. A monster or grouch would probably be willing to lend him a few tufts, but the problem is, Fat Blue has become a bald icon, like the Mr. Clean of muppetdom and is pretty much stuck as is.

Follow That Bird Flu, Part 1

2005-11-21T04:01:00.000-08:00

While the rest of the planet is worrying about the spread of the bird flu epidemic, all's quiet over on Sesame Street. This is surprising to me because usually Sesame Street and the Children's Television Workshop are not afraid to put their characters through real-life situations as learning tools for their kiddie audience (example: death of Mr. Hooper). I think it's time to get the youngest generation worried sick about bird flu and other potential plagues, and what better show than Sesame Street to deliver the message for us?

The show can tell kids about the even more dreaded Big Bird flu. It starts out with just the sniffles, but the next thing you know, you've broken out in yellow feathers. If you grow a beak and stretch out to over 8 feet tall, big bird is definitely the word. The fever that follows can make one hallucinate that they have imaginary hairy elephant friends, who later on turn into real-life friends. Freaky shit.

Kids will naturally ask their parents about Big Bird flu, and then parents can do one of two things: A) Spill the beans about the actual bird flu epidemic and be open about any and all diseases and effects; or B) Lie and say the only way to avoid Big Bird flu is to brush your teeth, clean up your room, eat your vegetables, take baths and do all the shit that they never seem to want to do without parental intervention. Most parents will probably go with Plan B.

If Big Bird flu is not enough, it's up to Sesame Street to bring many more muppet strains of diseases and ailments to the forefront. You can start out by telling them about Barkley's Bad Case of Worms, Buster the Horse's Hoof and Mouth Disease, and even worse, Gladys' Mad Cow Disease. If that doesn't get their little hearts beating a little faster, I doubt they'll still be singing "Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street" after hearing about the following:

Mammoth Morbid Obesity - This is 100 times worse than morbid obesity because the sheer size of the victim can swell to over 3,000 pounds. It is not uncommon for him to have unsightly, scraggly body hair and sometimes dental hygiene can spiral out of control with the growth of tusks. The victim breathes heavily and can't seem to speak a sentence without the words "Gee, bird" in it. Strangely, the biggest cause of death is not complications from diabetes, heart disease or other disorders of the heavy-set, but rather walking into tar pits and becoming hopelessly trapped, then suffocating after sinking below the bubbly black surface.

Cookie Monster Bulimia - Tragically, this is not an intentional eating disorder, but rather is the act of eating cookies so fast that it makes one toss his cookies. Just the sight of a cookie sends the Cookie Monster into a psychotic feeding frenzy where he turns his tonsils into a punching bag, pulverizing the cookie(s) into crumby shrapnel by cramming them into his mouth repeatedly without chewing.

PBS spokesmen have said Cookie Monster has turned over a new leaf and is not as crazy about cookies any longer. Give me a break. His name is Cookie Monster, and he ain't gonna be singing "C is for celery." Don't buy any bullshit that he's in a 12-step program called Cookies Anonymous, either.

"Me eat healthy foods because cookies are only a sometimes food," Cookie Monster would lie to the camera before breaking down. "Oh, who me kidding? Me not vitamin C monster. Me get cookie bouquets from fans all the time. Me have 10-pack-a-day habit that includes Oreos, Chips A'hoy, and Mrs. Fields. Cooooooookiiieeeeeeeee!!! Mmmunchmmmunchh!"

Oscar the Grouch Dysentery - This sad disease evolves when you not only live in your own filth, but in the filth of others. Like Oscar, the worst cases actually live in trash cans, and are against recycling programs of any sort. They are the cliff divers of dumpster diving. They accept any type of garbage to be thrown at or on them, including dangerous household cleaners and animal carci. Hair eventually becomes green and matted, but the victims are usually busy making up lyrics and then singing delusional songs about how happy they are to be living in such a dump (example: I Love Trash!).

Count OCD - Even vampires with obsessive compulsive disorder crave counting more than sucking blood out of victims or turning into a bat. They may start out counting to 10 or 12 to show off, but eventually it escalates to 20. Once that is mastered, counting becomes an obsession, counting everything and anything, driving all of those around them to put in earplugs, or in more severe cases, drive a wooden stake through his muppet heart to shut his purple ass up. Typically finishes any counting with a slow, methodical laugh. The Count almost died when he tried to keep up with counting how many stockholder dollars were lost during the Enron scandal.

Bert Beastiality - A constant case of jaundice is the least of our unibrowed friend's worries. When he started going "birding" without binoculars, this was the first sign of trouble. I guess one can become pretty sexually "confused" when you have some puppeteer's hand up your ass for your whole life. It might not even be Bert's fault - he may be guided by that unseen hand. Eventually the disturbingly fowl behavior was accepted by Bert, who was so overcome with denial at first, he made up a song - "Doin' the Pigeon" - to try and masquerade that the act was innocently about dancing like a bird, not deviant dirty dancing. Once he tires of pigeons, new song and dance numbers will follow, possibly including "Chokin the Chicken", "Rockin the Robin", "Poppin' the Penguin", and "Bangin the Blue-Footed Booby."

Ernie Rubber Duckie Allergy - The good news is Ernie is not allergic to condoms. The bad news is, this is an allergy to solely the latex used to make rubber duckies, by far Ernie's favorite tub toy and song subject matter. It was difficult to detect at first because it causes the skin to look wrinkly like a raisin, much like one would look after soaking in the tub for a long period of time. Prolonged exposure to the latex is not fatal, but it can cause one's laugh to be reduced to a spitty gurgle.

Grover Vertigo - This terrible dizziness disorder all starts with a demonstration of far and near. If the running back and forth isn't enough to cause extreme exhaustion, the yo-yo effect of it all takes its toll on the optic nerve and creates light-headedness, nausea and sometimes hysteria. This can also happen to muppets in the service industry - like Grover the waiter - who are too dense and high-strung to realize that the fly in the diner's soup is not an actual insect, but the diner is simply showing off his spelling abilities with alphabet soup. By the time Grover finally realizes this, he faints from utter exhaustion.

Telly-phone Sex Addiction - This is the affliction of being obsessed with muppet phone sex lines with a twist. "Telly-phone" addicts typically make their calls in the dark and just want to hear monsters heavy breathing. They long to be frightened into an orgasm. Hardcore addicts usually only have their freakiest fantasies satisfied by requesting a few toots from the Honkers.

This post was brought to you by the number 4 and the letter Q. 4Q. Get it? Stay tuned for Part 2, coming soon.

Don't duck the question

2005-11-14T02:04:00.000-08:00

For the first time ever yesterday, I called a Chinese restaurant without the intention of ordering food. I just needed to have a nagging question finally answered.

What the fuck is mock duck?

I saw it on a takeout menu and have been wondering what it really is. Mock duck? Does that mean it's a fake duck? Is this a fancy way to say pigeon?

"I have no idea," my wife admitted. "Who cares? It probably tastes like chicken anyway."

That answer was amusing, but it didn't satisfy the reporter in me. One thing was almost certain: It couldn't be a rubber duck because they are not edible. With the Minnesota Vikings game over, now I could focus my full attention on getting to the bottom of what mock duck actually is. I've had real duck. It's really good. Mock duck doesn't sound very tasty.

My definition of mock duck? When Elton John would dress up in those ridiculous outfits for concerts in the 1970s. But I doubt the restaurant was serving him with sticky rice.

It was time to get some answers, so I decided to call the phone number right on the take-out menu. A peppy young lady answered the phone.

"Hello, can I take order?"

Me: "I'm not sure yet. Maybe you can help me decide. What exactly is mock duck?"

"It cheap."

Me: "No, I don't need to know how much it costs. I was wondering what it is. The name makes it sound like fake duck? So, is it a chicken who liked to swim once in a while?"

"No, I told you it cheap."

Me: "What? A cheap duck? Do you mean a seagull?"

"You crazy."

Me: "I'm crazy? You're serving something called mock duck. If you can go to a nice place and get duck under glass, what do you serve mock duck under? Plexiglass? And you still haven't told me what type of bird the cheap duck is."

"No, cheap. Like goat with no horn. Cheap. Baa-baa. Baby cheap."

Me: "Oh, you mean sheep. I got you now. You mean it's lamb? So it's not even a bird?"

"No duck. It baby cheap."

Me: "If it's lamb, why the heck do you call it mock dock?"

"When cheap meat get cut, it look like duck."

Me: "And they call it mock dock because of that?"

"Yes."

Me: "If you actually served duck would you cut the meat to look like sheep and then call it SPAM lamb?"

"I not sure. Maybe. You like try order of mock duck?"

Me: "I'm going to have to think about it. I will call you back."

I never did. Now a different question was stuck in my head. What the hell is mock crab? I suppose that's a piece of cut fish that looks like the shape of a damn crab. Well, I don't plan on calling a seafood joint to find out for sure. And I sure as hell am not going to ask a pharmacist what mock crabs are as his explanation would probably make me lose my appettite. Although he probably has some kind of mock shampoo that would clear it all up in a few days.

Bizarre Bazaar

2005-11-11T03:25:00.000-08:00

I drove by a neighborhood church advertising its fall carnival today and it gave me a flashback of how sometimes these events are more bizarre than bazaar.

It was back in 1980 or 1981. My family lived in north Florida, where our church was throwing a bazaar complete with games, prizes and fun for the whole family. The organizers even planned to "broadcast" some music from a new 8-track system and asked parishoners to bring in their favorite tapes.

We'd been to events like this before. No one ever brought any decent music, meaning we kids were subjected to the tortures of 10-12 straight hours of christian and gospel music. My sister and I lobbied for Mom to be a trailblazer and bring some current music. She was pretty hip, so we didn't have to do much talking. She chose two of the hottest soundtracks of the time - Saturday Night Fever and Urban Cowboy - pretty ballsy selections to bring to a church party.

I knew Mom wouldn't approve, but I snuck my KISS Destroyer tape along anyway, hoping to crank "Detroit Rock City" and "Shout It Out Loud" to get the congregation rockin', then slow it down with "Beth."

The lady running the music booth, who I'll call DJ, was a nutjob censor who probably spent her spare time burning books. DJ ignored Mom's two contributions to the music selection and seemed to be content just showcasing her own gospel music collection.

After hearing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" for the 13th time, I finally decided to make my move. I went over to DJ and unveiled my KISS 8-track and begged her to play it. I almost got down on my knees, but we were outside church, not inside.

"I will not disrespect the church grounds by playing this filth," DJ snapped. "Do you know what KISS stands for? It's an acronym for Kids In Satan's Service. If you keep listening to this garbage, you'll end up being a devil worshipper!"

I attended the Catholic elementary school on the church's grounds and was somewhat of a hellion, but I was hardly the satanist Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons, Ace Frehley and Peter Criss had enlisted me to be. I just liked their rock and roll music.

Mom overheard part of DJ's devil worshipping speech and told her that she needed to start mixing up the music a bit and playing the other parishoners' tapes. OK, maybe not KISS, but only because they were too loud, not because they wore makeup, leather and platform boots. A couple of other mothers chimed in and agreed it was time to shake some booty like John Travolta.

Once Saturday Night Fever started playing, the place started rocking. People were strutting around the place to "Stayin' Alive." Kids were asking the priests and nuns to dance. It was getting really fun. Other people got some balls and went out to their cars and brought in their favorite 8-tracks too.

Things were hopping. I won a wonderful carrot cake during the cakewalk to the tune of "Jive Talking" by the Bee Gees. Take that, DJ! People wanted to hear the Saturday Night Fever 8-track in its entirety again, so put that fucking Jim Nabors tape down, bee-yotch!

People were dying to hear Urban Cowboy next. Parents and kids were two-stepping and square dancing on the basketball court having a great time. But then all hell broke loose, and The Charlie Daniels Band song "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" was playing.

DJ tried to make it through the song, even though it tells the tale of a kid named Johnny who bets his soul he can kick the devil's ass in a fiddle-playing contest. The crowd was boot scootin' to the beat until near the end of the song, when Charlie Daniels utters the ever-famous "Devil, come on back if you ever wanna try again, I done told you once you son-of-a-bitch, I'm the best that's ever been!"

At that point, DJ screamed and yanked the tape out of the player. She just went fucking Footloose on my Mom. She threw the 8-track tape at her and publicly chastised her for bringing an 8-track with profanity on it at a church event that involved "God's children." Except me. I was a KISS devil baby.

DJ ranted and raved and pretty much said Charlie Daniels was the anti-Christ for saying "son-of-a-bitch" in that song. He was also "going to hell for glorifying gambling and potentially giving his soul to Satan." She looked at me when she said Charlie Daniels was "10 times worse than KISS." DJ probably had an acronym for The Charlie Daniels Band, too, but I was afraid to open that can of worms. Before her holier than thou tirade was over, she might have even threatened to outlaw dancing in the entire county.

I didn't get it. I heard them read the word "ass" straight from the bible in church once, but DJ didn't snatch the good book away from the priest and bitch him out. Ass was way worse than son-of-a-bitch in my book.

Mom was totally embarassed, but my friends thought she was the coolest lady ever because she made DJ play the "son-of-a-bitch" tape at church. You could hear a pin drop at the bazaar now, so DJ tried to save face after going psycho in front of the whole congregation by getting the party rocking again.

"No worries, my people, I will now only play the current music without all of the filth that foul-mouthed redneck Charlie Daniels and his devil band call music," she said hysterically, almost crying. "I promise from here on out with God as my witness, I will play nothing but clean music with clean language for good clean fun."

The next tape she put in was Blondie. Let's just say the tide was about to get pretty fucking high for DJ, and she wasn't wearing capri pants. The second or third song to play was "Rapture." This made my dirty little friends and I laugh because we knew the lyrics for this song included the words "finger fucking." DJ was totally clueless when Debbie Harry sang that part, prancing around like she was auditioning for American Bandstand. She mistook our cheering and laughing for her choice of music and idiotic energy. But the real source of our amusement was the fact she flipped out over "son-of-a-bitch," yet "finger fucking" didn't even warrant the blink of a fake eyelash.

The next tape she played was my friend's favorite. It was Tattoo You by The Rolling Stones. The second song to play was "Start Me Up." My friends and I laughed even harder because we knew the whole song was about getting laid. Even better, towards the end of the song, Mick Jagger would sing "You make a dead man come" not once, but twice!

DJ was clapping along and yelling for everyone to sing along. If only she knew all the words. "Start me up!" she squeaked. "Yeah, wooooo!" She was more annoying than some 13-year-old from Buffalo making a request on MTV's TRL.

After the bazaar, Mom went to retrieve her Saturday Night Fever 8-track. DJ scolded her to be more careful what music she brought next time and to screen it for profanity. Mom was starting to feel bad again, so I decided it was time to speak up.

"Don't worry, ma," I said. "Your 8-track just said 'son-of-a-bitch.' She played shit later that talked about finger fucking and making some corpse come. She's just pissed because your Urban Cowboy 8-track wasn't dirty enough for her."

DJ almost fainted. Seriously. After Mom picked her jaw off the sidewalk, she dragged me away from the area, telling me that "11-year-old boys don't talk like that." I felt bad because I thought I had embarassed her again.

When we got in the car, I thought Mom was going to give me a good ass-chewing. Instead, she started laughing and thanked me for having such a good ear and pointing out what the lyrics to those songs were. However, she told me I shouldn't use those words or sing those verses aloud, especially around DJ.

Then Mom put in my KISS tape and cranked "Shout It Out Loud" for the drive home.

Sticky Situation

2005-11-09T00:22:00.000-08:00

When I was in elementary school, I used to dig stickers. My teachers would paste them on my schoolwork if I did a particularly good job. I hadn't thought about stickers much since then. Until Tuesday.

That's when I went to the school on Selby Avenue near my home to cast my vote in the city of St. Paul's mayoral election. The place was practically deserted. I filled out my ballot, fed my sheet into the meter and headed for the door. But before I could get out of the gymnasium, a sweet little old lady grabbed me by the arm.

"Hey, sonny, aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

"Ahhh, I don't think so," I replied, checking my coat for my wallet and keys.

"What about your 'I Voted' sticker?" she asked.

"Oh, that," I said.

"You want one, right?" she asked.

"Maybe... do you have a scratch and sniff one?" I joked.

"It's not scented, but if you'd like I can scratch it and then you can sniff it," she said.

The old gal was pretty funny, so I agreed to take one of her stickers. She started to hand me the sticker, but then pulled it away at the last second.

"Waitaminute," she said. "You're not going to wear it, are you?"

"Ummmm, probably not," I admitted.

"Why not?" she asked. "Don't you want everyone to know you voted?"

"It doesn't matter to me," I laughed.

"Well, it does to me," she chirped. "Come over here."

I walked a few steps forward. She peeled off the sticker and just pancaked it on my left man hooter. No worries about the sticker coming loose anytime soon.

"There, much better," she beamed before sitting back in her chair to await her next victim.

"So let me get this straight: I have a choice who will be the next mayor of our fine city of St. Paul, but I don't have a choice about wearing this sticker?" I teased.

"That's right," she said. "Now get out of here, sonny."

There was no getting out of this sticky situation, but that was OK with me.

Better Scares Come in Pairs, Part 2

2005-11-07T21:22:00.000-08:00

Last week, I gave some examples how Hollywood could revitalize its horror genre by having more cross-over films involving scary movie characters, like Freddy vs. Jason (an extremely imaginative way to resurrect two dead-tired characters - Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street and Vorhees from Friday The 13th fame).

It was such a scream coming up with some new blood to add to the horror cross-overs, I decided to add a few more to the list. Here are 10 more big-screen ideas that Hollywood should hook up:

Firestarter vs. The Ring girl - It all starts out innocently at Perkins, where the Ring girl has just finished coloring her placemat with crayons while awaiting her breakfast. Firestarter is jealous because the Ring girl didn't go outside the lines once, and she also successfully completed the maze on the first try, so she torches the Ring girl's placemat. Later, while the Ring girl is bent over in the wishing well trying to fetch a cheap plastic toy, Firestarter pushes her into the well. No one, not her parents or even the Perkins manager, notices for 20 years. Firestarter, now grown-up and banging musicians, watches a weird video she got from Blockbuster and then gets a phone call that she'll be dead in 7 days. Firestarter spontaneously combusts and burns her house down, also killing the Ring girl, who was calling from the basement.

Mr. Hyde vs. Mothman - The Mothman originally is seen by hundreds and seems to be warning various people about an impending disaster. But then the messages stop because some lady left her porch light on all night. The Mothman flies around it psychotically for 7 hours and ends up so dizzy he lands on the side of the house to rest. Unfortunately, it is the Dr. Jekyll residence and the doctor turns into Hyde just as he walks outside to grab his morning newspaper. Hyde sees Mothman on the wall, rolls up the newspaper and pancakes the Mothman's ass.

Frankenstein vs. Halloween's Michael Myers - Myers tries to track down Frankenstein for more of a thrill kill challenge. He thinks he finds him living with Tonto and Tarzan. It is a total misunderstanding because Frankenstein, Tonto and Tarzan are actually all Saturday Night Live players who think they just buzzed in co-star Mike Myers to rehearse a skit. Once inside, the Halloween Myers tries to start his killing spree until the SNL Myers shows up dressed up as Linda from Coffee Talk. At this point, Dr. Sam Loomis bursts into the room and takes both Myers into custody just to be safe.

Phantom of the Opera vs. Ron Pearlman's Beast - This should have been an interesting showdown with a great soundtrack, but the music is cut short fairly quickly. It all starts when the Beast confides in the Phantom how pussy whipped he is over beauty Linda Hamilton. The Phantom is so overwhelmed by the smutty details of Beast's love story, he starts diddling on his organ. When Beast realizes the Phantom isn't pounding on his keyboard, he is so disgusted, he kills him with a piano bench.

The Shining guy vs. Psycho Norman Bates - The Shining guy decides to vacation at the remote Bates Hotel. Bates waits for the Shining guy to take a shower so he can knife the shit out of him. The Shining guy goes insane before cleaning up, and decides to chop through Mother's door with an axe. Norman tries to change into his mother's old lady killing clothes, but he can't get his girdle clasped correctly and his nylons get stuck, leaving him easy prey for the Jack attack.

Maximum Overdrive machines vs. I Know What You Did Last Summer guy - It all starts when the dude in the rain slicker gets mowed down by a car on a lonely, winding stretch of road. He waits for a group of teenagers to try and cover up the crime by dumping his body, triggering a new killing spree. But he's just left on the shoulder like a roadkilled raccoon. When he gets up, he sees there are about 50 vehicles patiently waiting to run over his sorry ass again, led by that Joker semi.

Headless Horseman vs. Pinhead from Hellraiser - Pinhead taunts the Horseman, telling him he should ride sidesaddle and asking if he just got a haircut. The horseman covets Pinhead's head, even though it resembles a big-ass pin cushion. The horseman eventually decapitates Pinhead, but pricks his finger while trying to retrieve the head. While the horseman looks for a band-aid, Pinhead's body steals the horse. When the horseman tries on his new noggin, he realizes he looks like less of a jackass using a carved pumpkin for his melon rather than looking like he is undergoing radical acupuncture treatment.

Chucky vs. Snuggle Bear (after burial in Pet Semetary) - The Snuggle Bear is tragically killed when he is accidentally tossed in the dryer during a fabric softener commercial. The director decides to bury the Snuggle Bear in a local Pet Semetary despite warnings from a creepy old fart that it is near an ancient indian burial ground. Chucky auditions for the part as the new Snuggle mascot, hoping it will lead to him getting a real human body. Eventually, the Snuggle Bear returns from the grave with a case of supernatural rabies and rips Chucky to shreds.

Creepy hillbillies vs. Zombies - The Night of the Living Dead zombies take a Wrong Turn and end up wandering into the West Virginia "hills," where they are frightened to hear constant dueling banjos music. "You got a purty decomposing face," a hillbilly voice calls out to a zombie. The hillbillies quickly kill most of the zombies except the ones that are deceased relatives, who they marry (again).

Beetlejuice vs. Bat Boy -The Weekly World News calls Beetlejuice for help to rid their newsroom of their most famous cover story material. Editors grew tired of Bat Boy buzzing them near the water cooler, and hanging upside down from the ceiling while demanding all the lights be turned off. Beetlejuice tries all of his creepy antics to spook Bat Boy away, but ends up using a tennis racket and a fishing net to capture him.

Better Scares Come In Pairs

2005-10-30T22:22:00.000-08:00

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. And while you're at it, give me a great horror movie to watch. That's what Halloween is all about: Gorging on candy and watching a marathon of scary movies all night.

While my supply of candy will never run out, I am starting to get concerned about the scary movie production. There will always be the classic horror films, but I do depend on Hollywood to churn out at least a couple of decent horror flicks a year. That well might be drying up.

This year, only Saw 2 and The Fog remake really stand out as legit horror releases. I have no issue with the Saw movies, but am disappointed with The Fog.

First, before a movie is ever "remade," it should be a decent movie to begin with. At least change it enough to make me want to watch it, like Dawn of the Dead. I'd rather drive to the lakes and watch the fog roll off the water than watch The Fog remake. Maybe The Fog should have been called The Smog, with the setting in Los Angeles instead of the New England coast. Then I may have been willing to give it a second chance.

Maybe all the rehashing is my biggest issue. Why aren't there as many original movies any more? It's all movies about old TV shows or shitty sequels. I think horror movie remakes need to have a little new imagination put into them. Anyone can make an exact copy of an original. If you can't add a little spice to the original to make it different, don't bother. If you still can't think of anything, think outside of the pine box.

Freddy vs. Jason was an imaginative way to resurrect two tired characters (Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street and Vorhees from Friday The 13th fame) and inject them with new life.

Hollywood should take that idea and run with it for a while. Here are 10 other big-screen crossover ideas that Hollywood hasn't hooked up yet.

The Children of the Damned vs. Carrie - It starts out innocently as Carrie is offered a babysitting job to watch several albino children. Her mother warns her "They're all going to laugh at you!" but Carrie takes the gig anyway. Things start to go downhill when the little pink-eyed hellions won't put their toys away, brush their teeth or put on their pajamas. She tries calling John Travolta for babysitting tips, but he just babbles bullshit about Scientology, so she makes his car flip over 15 times. The last straw is when the kids lure Carrie into the foyer and dump a bucket of pig's blood on her head. She flips out and burns the house down, roasting all those little assholes to a crisp (if the director prefers a farm setting, just make it Carrie vs. The Children of the Corn).

Poltergeist vs. The Amityville Horror House - The same crooked developer from the Poltergeist movie decides to move the possessed house from New York to the graveyard where the old Poltergeist house stood. A possessed house + poltergiest = big fucking trouble. Then he dupes Craig T. Nelson's family again into buying their dream home. About 90 minutes later, Nelson is yelling "You only moved the headstones!" to the developer while his daughter is scribbling "redrum" and "kcaaaaber'yeht" all over the home's walls.

Misery woman vs. The Invasion of the Body Snatchers aliens - The aliens have one hell of a time snatching Kathy Bates' husky body. They decide to send in their best body snatcher disguised as James Caan, but he loses control of his car on a wintery road. Bates ends up snatching the alien's body from the car and decides to "nurse" him back to health, thinking he is her favorite author. She forces the alien to write a shitty romance novel, then hobbles him with a sledgehammer.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon vs. Jaws - The Creature is slowed down by all the seaweed hanging from him, so he is easily attacked by Jaws, who is still really pissed at Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfus. Jaws ends up biting off the Creature's left arm in the frenzy. The movie does have a heartwarming ending as the Creature, despite his missing appendage, releases a cologne called Black Lagoon Magic that doubles as shark repellent.

Dracula vs. The Mummy - The Mummy staggers around all stiff and presents no real challenge for The Count. However, when Dracula gets into position for his first bite of a 20,000-year-old Egyptian, he's incredibly disappointed. The Mummy's bandages are dry and crispy, making The Count hope the inside is chewy or creamy. When The Count tries sucking blood out, there's nothing but dusty remnants. It ends up being a total pain in the ass for Dracula, who has to suck powder out of the Mummy, spit it back into a Folgers can and bring it back to his castle. There, he heats up his coffee pot to 98.6 degrees, changes filters and mixes in The Mummy powder. When he finally has a cup of Mummy Mocha blend ready, it tastes more like ancient embalming fluid than blood, causing The Count to drive a wooden stake through his own heart.

Werewolf vs. Cujo - You'd figure this one would end up worse than a pit bull fight. It ends up pretty tame as the creatures walk up to each other and begin to sniff each other's asses to say "hello." They instantly recognize each other as old friends. They end up playing frisbee fetch, chasing cars, pissing and shitting in enemy's lawns, chewing on the bones of old victims, etc. Until the full moon ends. Then the werewolf turns back into a man and Cujo mauls him to death.

Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs vs. Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre - At first these two sickos want to kill each other and use each other's skin for new outfits. Until they realize they both share this bond. Next thing you know, they're doing silly little fashion shows for each other mixing and matching skin wardrobes. Then they go shopping for shoes from the collection of their victims. They paint each other's toenails blood red and gossip about all the people they've slaughtered. Later, Leatherface accidentally kills Buffalo Bill in a macabre slumber party pillow fight, but then makes a great new pair of cowboy boots out of him.

Christine vs. The Birds - Christine sees the flock on the highway pecking away at its victims and tries to turn the birds into more roadkill. But the birds fly off at the last moment unharmed. Christine then plays "Freebird" on its radio to try and lure the flock back to the highway. The foul fowl notice how shiny Christine looks after its recent wash and wax, and immediately all get the same idea. The birds shit all over the car, sending Christine off a cliff to its explosive doom.

The Exorcist girl vs. The Omen boy - In this classic clash, the Linda Blair character taunts Damien, saying things like "Your mother sucks cocks in hell." Damien, the Devil's son, knows these accusations are true, but it still pisses him off. They put each other through unspeakable pain, but when she barfs pea soup all over him, they end up falling for each other and spend the rest of the night holding hands and smooching while listening to Damien's Air Supply records.

The Addams Family vs. The Munsters - It all starts when Herman Munster comes home early from work and catches Gomez kissing Lily's arms. When Gomez slips the tongue to Lily's funny bone, the gloves are off! Herman just tears Gomez apart. Then the rest of the families join the melee. Morticia claws Lily to death, Uncle Fester electrocutes Grandpa, Eddie Munster and Pugsley kill each other, Spot eats Cousin It, and Lurch totally hooks up with Marilyn when he gets an extra "hand" down her pants from Thing.

Note: I'll live up to this post's title and deal a second dose of scary movie pairings soon. You didn't think I'd leave out Halloween's Michael Myers, did you?

Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?

2005-10-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

Dean Wormer once said "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life." Well, trust me, it's a great way to spend a weekend.

I went back to my alma mater, North Dakota State University, in Fargo for Homecoming. The event gives me and my buddies an excuse to act like we did in college one weekend a year.

I think we succeeded. Most of us were fatter than we were in college. We drank for about 10 hours straight on Friday and then another 13 on Saturday, so I think we may have been drunk (I may even still be drunk as I write this entry). And the stupidity goes without saying due to the drinking.

My best friend and college roommate Spam and I made the trip together. I can't 100 percent remember how he got his nickname, but I think it was because he shotgunned a can of lunch meat and then crushed the empty tin on his forehead to impress some girl.

Spam now works at Lex Luther College, where he designs buildings and evil schemes for the Legion of Doom to use against the Superfriends. Unfortunately, all of his time and effort usually gets fucked up by the Wonder Twins and their pet monkey, Gleek. So he was more than happy to get away from that kind of work stress.

My buddy Jeff's wife and family actually evacuate his Fargo home every year for Homecoming weekend to accomodate us. I'm not sure where Jeff's family goes into hiding, but I heard it's a nearby fallout shelter. They wait there for a few days until the beer fart fumes clear and the air quality is determined not to be a health risk.

One thing that never changes: It was great to hang out and throw back countless beers with my fraternity brothers again. It's amazing how telling the same stories we've heard and told hundreds of times are every bit as funny as the first time.

Besides being 1 year older, here are some things I noticed that made N.D.S.U. Homecoming different in 2005 than it was back in my heydey in the late 1980s.

While driving near campus, we saw a few extremely attractive female students. Back in the day, we would have been hooting and hollering out the windows like a cat-calling construction crew. This time, the car was eerily silent, making me realize I wasn't the only one who probably felt like ~~a pedophile~~ Tom Cruise for thinking a girl half my age was hot. I was also able to compose myself enough not to jump on any furniture, or go on Oprah to gush about it.

We stopped by the fraternity house I lived in for 3 years while in college. It just wasn't the same. Mostly because it is "dry" now, meaning no booze of any kind is allowed inside. I tried to reassure a couple of current members that even though I had the choice to be bombed for my entire collegiate career, it could always be worse.

"Hey, at least the university only made you 'dry,'" I told them. "Think if the rules were governed by Arrid or one of the other antiperspirant companies. They'd probably make the house 'Extra Dry' or 'Ultra Dry.' Then you'd really be fucked. They wouldn't even let you have running water in here."

The fraternity used to be wetter than Sea World. Non-alcoholic beverages were not permitted. We constantly had keg parties, and would look for any kind of excuse to drink ("Ooo, we have an intramural hockey game tonight, let's get a keg"). We even stocked beer and cans of Purple Passion in the pop machine to make sure our underage members could drink whenever they wanted. Those antics wouldn't fly these days.

The house currently ranks at the top of the national rankings in fraternity house collective GPA with a 3.75 or something. When I was in the house, we had the collective highest blood alcohol percentage nationally at .239. I was on the Dean Martin list.

Not wanting to depress the current members with stories from our glory years and drive them to drink, we decided to go bar-hopping at all of our favorite old haunts. Jeff gave the current president of the fraternity his library card so we could take a True Merit Bowl (an award we won back in 1988 for overall fraternity excellence despite our drunkeness) out of the house and with us on our bar crawl, as if we were pro hockey players parading the Stanley Cup around. The Bowl became a community drinking pitcher at the local pubs. We found out it holds a pitcher of beer and looks even better with half a lemon wedge on the rim.

We even went to our old favorite strip club. Some guy shoved $5 down my shirt when he saw the size of my man hooters. I told him and some nearby strippers that I was used to such attention being a former Chips Ahoy! dancer (Chippendales plus-size guy).

Later, one of the strippers was making her "sales pitch" to us, bragging that she had once been a figure skater. I told her that I had also been one. She didn't seem convinced that a 300-pound plus dude could be graceful on ice skates.

"You were a figure skater?"

"Yeah, have you ever heard of Sesame Street on Ice?" I asked.

She nodded that she had.

"I was Snuffalupaguss."

She believed me until I told her my career ended when I skated over thin ice, fell through six inches to the cement and broke both of my ankles.

Later, an African American stripper from Des Moines took the stage and had the most disproportionate body any of us had ever seen. Her ass was bigger than a garbage truck, and I think she even made a beeping noise when she backed that booty up. It was like someone had implanted JLo's ass on top of her's. My friend Jimmy commented on how he's the anti-ass man, how it "disgusted" him and he couldn't deal with that.

Being the true friend I am, I immediately sought out the woman with the wonderful caboose and told her how my friend Jimmy just loved her ass. So, $20 later, I had this very nice young lady shaking her shit right in Jimmy's face. I even bribed the DJ to play Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon during the table dance. Buying dances for your friends is really the best way to spend any kind of money in one of these establishments.

OK, so it wasn't quite as Animal House-esque as it once was 15-20 years ago. We didn't sabatoge the Homecoming parade. No one screwed the Dean's wife. No one shot and killed a horse in the Dean's office. We didn't try to pick up Fawn Leibowitz at a local women's dorm.

But we drank a lot of booze and bullshitted until we were blue in the face. We gorged at Taco John's three times - including twice in one day. Two of my 40-something friends went streaking through a private house party when their bet ended in an unexpected draw (which is way funnier than two stupid 20-year-old guys streaking through a party). The bottom line is we were still fat, drunk and stupid, which was probably enough for double secret probation in Dean Wormer's book, or at least put us on an Old School level.

See Ya Later, Alligator

2005-10-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

I saw a gruesome story recently from Florida's Everglades about a 13-foot Burmese Python which died after eating a 6-foot American alligator. Talk about indigestion!

The snake apparently swallowed the gator whole, then ruptured, leaving the carcass carnage behind. The Associated Press ran a great shot (shown at right) of the aftermath, where you can clearly see the hind legs and tail of the gator and what's left of the exploded snake.

This story touched me because I've almost been that snake more times than I can count, eating until the brink of bursting open. I've never wrapped my arms around my meal and crushed it until it suffocates, but I have skipped chewing to swallow large items whole several times. I guess I'm as close to a human python or anaconda there is.

Hopefully my wife won't find just my pelvis and legs near the carving station of the Old Country Buffet, making her realize I burst after trying to eat chicken, ribs, turkey, roast beef and pork instead of just picking one of the above.

Now that I've swelled up to 335 pounds, I probably should cut back before I pop. I'm not launching a full-scale battle of the bulge here. I haven't even mentioned the worst four-letter word I know (D-I-E-T). I'm just chewing around with the idea. I need to let it digest a while before starting my bay of pigs invasion.

When that day comes, it will be a huge challenge. I am totally addicted to food, a cheese & crackers whore. I would go to overeater's anonymous, but I don't think I would fit in because I don't hide my binges from anyone. Instead, I am like Bluto from Animal House, snarfing jello for everyone in the cafeteria to see (except I would never waste mashed potatoes by doing the very funny zit-popping impression).

I guess it started out when I was a baby. I was so obsessed with food that I would even fall asleep in it. My sister claims she saved me from drowning in a bowl of oatmeal, strained peas or other delicacies on more than one occasion.

As I got older, the addiction grew worse. When you're 7, yet you eat your Saturday morning monster cereal in a mixing bowl with a ladle or huge serving spoon, you've got a problem. The cereal obsession still lingers to this day, as does my craving for cartoons (the latter is another story for another day).

I got used to living large at the dinner table. My Dad's philosophy was if I put it on my plate, I should be able to eat it.

"Don't let your eyes ever get bigger than your stomach," Dad would preach. "You better eat up whatever you order or put on your plate, or I'll find somewhere else to stick it."

There were never any worries there. My eyes could never rival the size of my belly. I cleaned up my plate every time. Even back then, I was eating that Super Size Me pansy under the table at McDonald's. I was woolfing down a Big Mac, a large fries and a strawberry shake, then a hot cherry pie or McDonaldland cookies for dessert.

All my friends could talk about were Happy Meals. I ordered one and was not happy at all because it seemed more like an appetizer to me than a meal.

"Hey, Mrs. Manager, the Happy Meal didn't live up to its name," I told some lady at a Lynchburg, Virginia, location. "The best prize you could put in that box would be something else to eat, not some stupid toy!"

The manager laughed and gave me a free quarter pounder with cheese. My Dad was embarrassed that I traded in my toy for more food, but on the other hand he was proud of my negotiating skills.

Poor Dad had to pay a majority of my food bill for at least 20 years. Needless to say, he tried to take advantage of buffets to satisfy my appettite. Even if it involved a weekly debate.

He argued often with the manager of a local Chinese Restaurant over my age. The place advertised free buffet meals for kids 12 and under. I was 11 but I looked and ate like I was 17. The manager finally "carded" me, but I told him 11-year-olds don't have IDs.

"He over 12!" the manager yelled at Dad. "I no believe you. He 16 or 17. He foot taller than me and you say he 11?! Bring birth certificate next time or he owe for buffet."

My parents provided the proof the next week. I think Dad might have starved me for a couple of days beforehand so I would really take a dent out of that chow line. The buffet owner was pissed because I cleaned out the fried rice bin twice and he couldn't keep up with my egg roll and wonton consumption. Coincidentally, the next week the kids eat free policy was lowered to age 10.

In college, I ate and drank heavily with a bunch of buddies who shared my love for the food and drink. We went to the all-you-can-eat buffet places just to see how much damage we could do. I even got kicked out of Arby's in Fargo, North Dakota, when I was 19.

"Why are you kicking me out?" I complained. "I haven't even eaten half of what I could eat!"

"You guys are a bunch of pigs," the Arby's manager said. "Don't you feel the slightest bit guilty eating $200 worth of food for $4.99? You are abusing the all-you-can-eat salad bar privilege!"

I guess he was also really pissed that I had actually taken the tubs of potato salad and butterscotch pudding out of the ice bunker and back to my table. I tried telling him I had gotten tired of making trips back and forth to the salad bar and thought just taking the tubs would be easier because I was going to empty them out anyway.

Over 15 years, not much has changed other than my pants size. Oh, and now when I step on the scale, I just bury the needle (much like a speedometer disappears on floored sportscar). I'm a one-man Roman food orgy, minus the barfing afterwards.

My eyes still haven't been bigger than my stomach, but that would be a problem if my eyes ever got as big as medicine balls. Doctors say our stomach should be the size of our fist. My fist is huge, but I know my stomach is at least four times that big.

Maybe I'm not like that snake after all. Maybe I'm more like a cow with four stomachs who likes to bullshit a lot. Then again, I've also heard the term you are what you eat. If we really are what we eat, then I guess I'm not a snake. I'm a sprawling around-the-world buffet.

Viking ship turns into Love Boat

2005-10-16T10:12:00.000-07:00

My Minnesota Vikings made waves this week after stories leaked of players cavorting with strippers while attending a wild and drunken sex party aboard pleasure craft on Lake Minnetonka. Brings new meaning to "love boat."

Many Minnesotans are outraged by the alleged lewd acts, and are looking for someone to blame. The problem is, they can't figure out who to point the finger at.

Well, that's easy. Look no further than Julie McCoy, your cruise director. She sets up the events on the ship: Naked shuffleboard on the Sun deck, the rave orgy in the disco on the Riveria deck, kinky photo shoots on the Aloha deck, peeping tom activities on the Observation deck, hardcore fucking on the Lido deck, sucking on the Coral deck, and fisting on the Fiesta deck.

The Minnesota Vikings players were eager to huddle up with the strippers and show them what the following football terms meant off the field: I formation, wishbone, touchdown, nose tackle, tight end, wide receiver, nickel package, sack, fourth and inches, chop block, leg whip, spike the ball, under center, take the snap, illegal blow to the head, roughing the passer, false start, unnecessary roughness, illegal use of the hands, too many men on the field and excessive celebration after scoring.

Witnesses say some Vikings and other guests harassed and/or invited members of the crew to "join the party." It seems like much of the media attention is being focused on the players' alleged involvement in illegal activity such as prostitution, overshadowing the kinkier behind-the-scenes stories told by and about the love boat crew.

Witnesses claim seeing strippers and players engaging in oral sex on dining tables in full view of everyone in the room. Something tells me this is NOT what Captain Stubing meant when he invited them to "dine with him at the Captain's Table." Then again, one witness overheard Stubing tell a stripper "I'm not afraid to go down with the ship, so you shouldn't be afraid to go down on me" and "would you like to see the Captain's log?"

Gopher was the most distraught of the crew. Players and strippers mistook his nickname for his job and they harassed him all night to go fetch things for them. "The players were like 'Hey, Gopher, go get me my helmet and pads... this is going to be some full-contact shit' while the strippers were saying 'Gopher, dear, go get me my titty tassels and my double-headed dildo.'" Later on, exhausted from running all of the on-board errands, he was accosted by a stripper who said "Hey, Gopher, I have a few holes you can crawl into!" After a scandal like this, a political career would be out of the question.

Someone heard Isaac, the bartender, bragging about giving nearly every person on the ship at least three or four cocktails. He also said he gave Cloris Leachman a slow screw and Annette Funicello some sex on the beach. Isaac was briefly arrested until police realized that simply meant he had served people drinks, not violated anyone with his stir stick.

Doc is accused of both helping and hindering. Known for being a ladies man on the ship despite his geeky looks, he was seen prescribing viagra before many of the sex acts, but later offered free inspections for genital warts. "No one's bitching about Isaac and he was serving stiff drinks all night," Doc hic-cupped. "But I serve a few stiffy pills, and people act like it's malpractice!"

Vicki was extremely upset by the events, screaming at players, strippers and other participants to please use birth control. "The last thing this ship needs is another little bastard like me running around," she shrieked before running off to blubber in a lifeboat.

Ace, the ship's photographer, apparently was treated by Doc for tendonitis in his picture-taking finger. He totally wore it out taking more "action shots" than a Hustler magazine employee. After Doc placed Ace's right index finger in a cast, he switched over to a video camera to document the party.

Guest stars aplenty were also on board, including buxom musician April Lopez (shown left telling Captain Stubing how big an offensive lineman's penis was). Lopez jumped overboard because she was only there to sing and say "Cuchi Cuchi," not bang anyone.

One rumor also placed Florence Henderson, Vic Tayback, Arte Johnson, Barbara Billingsley, Scatman Crothers and Randolph Mantooth in a stalled elevator for 2 hours. "One witness indicated it was no accident," one police official said. "Florence may have pushed the emergency stop button so she could show them all the real meaning of Wessonality."

Some people say that big boob coach Mike Tice is to blame and past coaches would not have tolerated or allowed such a party. My hunch is that Bud Grant's stone-faced expression would not have changed, even as an around-the-world nine-way was happening right in front of his steely eyes.

Tice, who I doubt scalped tickets to the love boat sex party, promised to have his team ready to play the Chicago Bears today. The team watched film all week, but it could not be confirmed if it was love boat re-runs or actual game film.

How could you possibly motivate your players to focus on the ballgame after a party like that? It's like expecting college students to be worth a shit and be able to focus on their studies the week after Spring Break. Tice will have to get creative and find some way to motivate the Vikings. Maybe he will take a Knute Rockne angle and tell the team to go out and "win one for the stripper... er, I mean, Gipper."

Canning did preserve me

2005-10-14T03:55:00.000-07:00

One year ago today I got canned. And I don't mean pickled and then crammed into a small masonry jar and left on a shelf in the cellar for later enjoyment.

I got fired.

And it wasn't by a classy, respectable guy like Donald Trump. I got fired by a middle man because the jerk who really pulled the trigger didn't have the peanuts to do it himself face-to-face.

The middle man was the operations manager, who tipped me off about three weeks prior to doomsday that my head was on the chopping block simply because the owner of the company "didn't like me." The middle man complimented my performance and gave me raises for my hard work, loyalty and an overall job well done many a time. He scored me a 4 out of 5 in reviews, telling me "5 is Jesus walking on water." So I wasn't God, but I was the next-best thing. In the end, none of it mattered.

I could probably write a book as thick as War and Peace on how shitty the owner - "Greg" - treated the employees who made his company money and kept his customers happy every day, but I will keep this blog entry shorter and bittersweet.

Why did I get canned? Three strikes and I was out.

First, I was making too much money. That's why Greg would fire 90 percent of his workforce before they reached their two- or three-year anniversary date. Despite my performance, Greg was a penny pincher and had a long history of firing strong and loyal employees simply because he was too cheap to keep them. He was always looking for a bargain and would have fucked his own mother if it meant he could save 50 cents a week to hire a chimpanzee instead. Greg constantly used the compensation and benefits each employee earned as guilt trips, saying he worked for free so he could provide for our families (yet he slipped a $10,000 check a month to his wife, drove a $30,000 Harley and took 4-5 extravagant vacations a year). He always bragged he was a "share-the-wealth guy," but in reality, he was full of shit.

Second, Greg was an obsessive-compulsive nutjob. He would snap over things like the parking lot - which bordered a forest-like park - not being completely leaf free for every second of the day in the middle of autumn. He was pissed once because he found a decapitated cricket under the pop machine and ranted on how we could miss sweeping something like that. He was a weirdo control freak, too. He would preach about setting up processes, then he would be the lone person to constantly break them, then he would want new processes created so he could break those, too.

In my final days, I caught him bitching about me behind my back and called him on it. I told him if he was so unsatisfied, he should fire me so we could both have closure and move on. But he wouldn't do it because he wanted me to quit because he was getting skull-fucked with unemployment insurance rates with his revolving door policy. "You're done here but you're not done until we tell you you're fired, so wait for that or quit," he snipped.

So I waited. It gave me more time to read his crown jewel, seven-page "company philosophy" that rambled on like it was written by the Unabomber. It was full of more lies and bullshit than the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. And it was about as effective as a triple roll of Charmin: Thick and great for wiping your ass, but not much else.

The third and final straw, I'm fat. He had one of his goons start harassing me about my weight, which unfortunately inevitably led to my "official" firing. My weight has never hindered me from doing anything in life, but I wasn't a perfect 5-foot-5 and 130 pound hobbit like Greg. The goon made repeated comments about my weight and made threats and aggressive posturing akin to "Let's have a bar room brawl." I could have kicked this brown-noser's ass in about 10 seconds, but I'm just a big teddy bear (and didn't want to go to jail over a little bitch goon like that). I wasn't comfortable working under this condition, or any of the others I have mentioned. Thankfully, the middle man finally granted me my wish and terminated me about 1:15 that afternoon a year ago today.

It was really tough at first because I hadn't really done anything "wrong" per se, which on top of all the other bullshit made it a pretty devastating blow. I guess when you finally escape a mental institution, it takes a while to get out of the strait-jacket.

Greg had also been mentally abusive. He told me I "didn't have what it took to take his warehouse to the next level." He constantly preached about the next level like his company was a big-ass Pac-Man game. But the thing is, we never reached that level. There were some minor peaks and valleys in his $4-5 million-a-year business plan, but for the most part, it was a bigger flat-liner than Kevin Bacon. Still, Greg would kind of brainwash you into thinking if he let you go, no one else would take a charity case like yourself in. It took me four months of unemployment to come out from under his thundercloud.

But then in February, the sky cleared. I interviewed at a job that made me an offer the next day for $5,000 more per year than I was making in Greg's gig. New Company had every confidence in my ability to join their $2.9 billion a year operation, which was more than just "the next level" up from the hellhole.

I am much happier now and am eternally thankful I am out of Greg's gulag, but I didn't have complete closure until today, when I sent the following letter out this morning to you know who:

Dear Greg,

Thank you for submitting your application to The Biggest Loser.

While we appreciate your enthusiasm that you believe you are the biggest loser, we regret to tell you that you will not be cast in future episodes because you don't meet our show's largest criteria: You're not fat.

Sure, you have a mullet and a cheesy mustache that makes you look like you went down on a muppet, which both do indeed make you a loser. Add in your personality and overall attitude towards anyone who is not in your mirror space, and you really are a big loser.

Unfortunately, you are only worthy of a big "L" on your forehead and not a spot on the cast for our third season. The show is called The Biggest Loser for a reason, dumb ass. The program is about obese people losing weight. Unfortunately, the show does not revolve around self-centered, skinny, pompous pricks like you.

Rest assured, if The Biggest Loser show was about finding America's biggest loser, we wouldn't bother holding a contest, even with Omarosa around. We'd just do a day-in-the-life documentary about you. But that wouldn't really take us to "the next level" in ratings now, would it?

Thanks for thinking of us anyway and keep watching all of your favorite NBC programming.

Sincerely,
Seymour Butts
Casting Director, The Biggest Loser

Man, that felt good. Yes, it was mean, and I'm probably the biggest loser for mailing that. But it was just what I needed to close that chapter of my life.

I may have not lost much body weight in the last year. But I did lose a great deal of weight that was on my shoulders, which was deteriorating my health and well-being more than anything else. So I guess you could say that canning really did preserve me.

Do the monster mash

2005-10-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

I have conquered many addictions in my life, but there is one habit I have yet to kick. It has such a powerful grip on me. I don't know of anything else that can make me high and turn my milk purple or pink.

That's right. My name is Rocky and I'm a monster cereal-aholic.

Especially when it comes to Boo Berry and Franken Berry. The two cereals are only made seasonally and released around Halloween time each year. So every October, I stagger around the city of St. Paul like a zombie in search of a sugar-high.

The Minnesota-based General Mills company used to produce those two cereals year-round along with Count Chokula and, for a short time, Yummy Mummy. I thought while growing up my business alone would be enough to keep Boo and Frank on the shelves, but Boo Berry disappeared like a ghost through a wall in the 1980s. Franken Berry may have been chased out of town by a torch-toting mob in the 1990s for all I know.

It took me a hell of a lot longer than 28 days to recover. I was still reeling after 28 months. No cereal on the market could really replace them (there aren't any other straight-up strawberry or blueberry cereals with marshmallows). Nothing, not even Lucky Charms comes close.

Then, out of the blue about four years ago, my wife and I were walking through Target the day before Halloween and boom, they were back. Boo Berry and Franken Berry. But only for a limited time.

I only bought two boxes and regretted it starting about November 6 when my supply ran out. Every year since, I've stockpiled more and more monster cereal.

This year, the stuff was hard to find. We went to three different Targets and four different grocery stores - about 40 miles of driving - with no luck. I started to panic. What if they discontinued it again?! I was so desperate to score one last stash.

When I spotted a pallet display at a local Cub grocery store, I almost howled like a werewolf. I grabbed as many boxes as I could carry and went to the register. The cute hyper Valley Girl-esque cashier was shocked at my breakfast bonanza.

"OhmahGod! Ten boxes of cereal?!!" the cashier gasped.

"Yup," I said.

"Is it, like, on sale or something?" she asked, her head starting to nod in rythmic fashion as if she were a bobblehead doll in the back window of a car.

"No, it's not on sale, it's seasonal," I said.

"OK, but 10 boxes is, like, a lot of cereal," she said.

"Yeah, but this stuff is hard to get a hold of," I said, shaking like a crackhead trying to seal a deal in a back alley. "After Halloween, I'm cut off again for another year."

"Wow, you must, like, eat a lot of cereal at breakfast, huh?" she asked. "It would take me, like, forever to totally chow down 10 boxes of cereal."

"Well this should last me at least a month," I joked. "Maybe two if I set a three-bowl limit every day."

"OhmahGod! Are you, like, serious?!" she gasped. "There is seriously, like, no way I could eat, like, the same cereal every day for, like, a month! And I could never, like, eat three bowls at once or I'd, like, totally hurl."

"Not me, I'm a Boo Berry junkie," I said. "I tell my wife to keep her hands away from my dish in the morning and everything will be fine."

"What-ever!" she giggled as she finished ringing up my perfect 10 purchase. "That will be, like, $19.90."

"You spent $20 on cereal, honey?" a large African American woman interrupted. "That's crazy!"

"Yeah, it is, but I'm nuts for the stuff," I said. "Some people buy cigarettes, some people buy booze. I buy Boo Berry and Franken Berry. They are two of my biggest vices."

"What do you mean some people?" the woman asked, raising her voice.

"I mean people who are hooked on booze and cigarettes buy booze and cigarettes," I said. "I buy sugar-coated cereals. It was supposed to be a joke."

"Are you sure that's what you meant, Mr. Big Cracker Man?" she snapped. "When white people say some people they usually mean black people."

"Ah, no, whoa, that's not even close to what I meant," I said. "And I certainly didn't come to the grocery store to pick on some woman I never met with passive-aggressive racism in the express lane. I'm just a Franken Freak, a Boo Boy, and that's it, git it?"

"Should I, like, get a manager or something?" the cashier asked.

"No, it's OK, don't bother, we'll be fine," I said. "I just wanted to buy my Boo Berry and Franken Berry. There is no black or white tonight or any night with me. The only colors I give a fuck about tonight are purple and pink."

"OK, baby, you don't have to get all mad," the lady said. "I believe you. We're cool now."

Thank God. I was hoping things wouldn't escalate to the point where I would have to explain why Count Chokula - the brown, chocolate cereal - was the only kind of monster cereal I was missing. If I was labeled a cereal racist, it really might have been enough to make me quit monster cereals cold turkey.

Slippery thief still making clean getaway

2005-09-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

These boots were made for walkin', but apparently those ruby slippers were made for stealin'.

That would probably be Nancy Sinatra's take on recent events at the Judy Garland Museum in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. It was a $1 million dollar heist that didn't net any cash, just a 66-year-old pair of shoes.

But the shoes were much more valuable than a pair of Air Jordans. The ruby slippers, used by Garland in the classic 1939 movie The Wizard of Oz, walked off from their exhibit the weekend of August 27-28. Someone broke an emergency exit door window and then shattered the glass display case to steal the slippers, failing to set off a state-of-the-art burglar alarm in the process.

It was as if a flying monkey had swooped in and swiped them. Police still have no solid leads and no yellow brick road to follow to solve the crime.

This is a troubling crime for both Minnesotans and The Wizard of Oz fans. Lutheran women have stopped making hotdish. The Mayor of Munchkinland has declared martial law.

The thief's trail is now over a month old, and starting to get as cold as International Falls in January. Minnesota Nice could use the help of Miami Vice, but it's a long drive for Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs. I'm no CSI guy, but am willing to add my 2 cents to try to keep the shoe snatcher from slipping away scot-free.

Here's five - other than the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy cast - who I think can be crossed off the suspect list already:

Scarecrow - At some point, you have to try to find the brains of the whole outfit. In this case, you wouldn't find any. No matter how the movie ended, he still had no fucking brain, and you needed one to be smart and cunning enough to pull off this theft. Besides, there would have been a trail of straw leading back to the cornfield if it was him.

Tin Man - He wouldn't have had the heart to do such a thing. Not the kind of heart that pumps blood, or that weird necklace fake heart The Wizard gave him, which looked more like some sort of big-ass bling alarm clock Flavor Flav would wear. The Tin Man would have been too loud and slow, clanking around the crime scene. Prowlers and metal suits just don't mix. Also, he would have needed an accomplice to oil his hinges if they became stiff or rusty.

Cowardley Lion - Even though the Wizard gave him a medal for bravery, this cat will still always be a big pussy, and way too chicken-shit to pull off such a big heist.

Toto - This little dog probably hasn't been able to get his mind off of humping munchkin legs since his little trip to Oz in Dorothy's picnic basket. Even if he did break into the museum, he only would have been able to fetch the slippers for his master, not steal them.

Wicked Witch of the West - She'd defintely have a motive as the slippers belonged to her sister before Dorothy's house landed on her wart-nosed, pointy hatted ass. Then Dorothy got the "hot" slippers. But remember, the Wicked Witch of the West ended up melting like a green army man in a microwave. And bad guys (and gals) only started coming back from the dead in the 1980s. If those had been Jason's mom's slippers, Dorothy would have ended up with an axe in her head in an Oz sequel.

But I wouldn't be so sure about these folks...

3 Wicked Stepsisters from Cinderella - These three hags are still bitter that the glass slipper didn't fit them, preventing possible hook-ups with Prince Charming. If a glass slipper could get a prince, they probably figured a ruby slipper would score a king.

Imelda Marcos - Sure, she was rumored to have over 3,000 pairs of shoes, but she didn't have any ruby red slippers. Just dozens of ballet slippers, bedroom slippers, sheepskin slippers, monster feet slippers, Elmo bedtime slippers, etc. A shoe yahoo like this might be tempted to add one more rare pair (there were only four known pairs of the ruby slippers in existence) to her collection, provided she has room in her shoe organizer.

Winona Ryder - She was once busted at a Beverly Hills Saks Fifth Avenue attempting to get a five-fingered discount for $4,800 worth of clothes, bags and accessories. Maybe kleptomania set in again when she realized the key to a clean getaway would be to simply yell "Bettlejuice!"

Old Woman Who Lived In a Shoe - She was bitter because the only shoe she ever owned was the one she lived in. After raising all of those kids, she figures she finally deserved to own a pair she could actually wear. She went through at least $1 million worth of bullshit inside that shoe (odor eaters did nothing for the smell), so society kind of owed the slippers to her.

Dorothy - Police did say they thought it could have been an inside job. Maybe it was Dorothy herself. Maybe she's "somewhere over the rainbow" and pissed off because the shoes don't fit any more. Maybe she wanted the slippers back because once she clicked her heels and did the whole "no place like home" thing, she realized that Kansas sucks and she really wants to be back in Oz.

Whoever swiped them, now the museum is being forced to potentially plan its Oztoberfest celebration without one of its main attractions. That would be like releasing all the "inmates" from HBO's Oz, yet continue filming the show. Or doing Ozzfest without Ozzy. It's just not the same.

Hopefully this WhoDunit will be solved soon. On the off chance the foot fetish fiend is into reading blogs: Come on, dude or dudette. You've had your fun. Just give the shoes back, no strings attached.

Let's face it, you'll never be able to fill those shoes, nor will you be able to walk a mile in them. It would be best to give them back before munchkin thugs find you and break your kneecaps.

Just Plain Nuts

2005-09-20T23:11:00.000-07:00

I've heard of wanting to be Zestfully clean, but this was ridiculous!

There was a sign posted on the Twin Cities etsablishment's bathroom wall that reminded its employees to wash their hands before returning to work. Leave it to me to walk in on a worker who was such an overachiever, he was washing his balls instead.

I wish I was kidding. I was not hallucinating on drugs, but I wanted to start taking them to help me "forget" the horrible image etched in my memory. One of some guy with his pants pulled down to the mid-thigh region, his testicles dangling over the sink, his hands working up a rich Lava-like lather to break down the grime, grease, graffiti or whatever it was he was trying to scour off his scrotum.

For the first time in my life I was speechless. I wasn't about to wait around and see if this guy used hand towels or prefered the blow job the hot air dryer could give him. I just did a quick 180-degree turn and bolted out of the bathroom. As horrifying of an experience it was, I also found myself oddly intrigued. What employee anywhere would have the balls to scrub his uglies in the bathroom sink while at work during working hours?

There was no warning whatsoever. The least he could have done was whistle the Irish Spring theme so people knew when he was damn near whistling dicksie. Instead, I bust the guy green-handed. Lucky me.

The look of shock on my face had to be priceless. However, the ball washer had no reaction. He shrugged off the activity as if he was simply trying to get some stubborn dirt out from under his fingernails, even though he was on his tippy toes giving his jewel case a power polishing.

The journalist in me hated leaving the room with so many unanswered questions, the most important ones being: Why didn't you lock the door?, and Why hasn't this place converted one of the toilets to a bidet, or better yet, a shower? But there was no way I was going to introduce myself and risk the chance of exchanging pleasantries, such as a handshake.

I was very confused. I had to follow up on this with someone. There seemed to be no need for this guy to freshen up his ball sack or primp the pubes while at work. After all, this wasn't a Chippendales club, it was a super-sized store, where everyone keeps their goodies in shopping carts and their junk in their pants. Or so I assumed.

As I staggered back out of the bathroom into the main area of the building, a passing group of worker bees seemed to notice I was distressed.

"Can I help you?" worker bee #1 asked.

"No, but there's someone in the restroom who needs help," I gasped. "Some guy's got his nuts wetter than that waterskiing squirrel in there."

"Oh, him," worker bee #1 sighed. "We've busted him a few times doing that. I think it has something to do with his religion."

I'm Catholic and had heard of the washing of the feet many a time. But never in religion classes or Sunday Masses do I remember a washing of the balls taking place.

"No, no," interrupted worker bee #2. "If he has an impure thought, that's when he must go scrub his balls right away to clean up the sinful area."

If that's true, I'm glad I am not a follower of his religion. I'd have spent half of my life soaping up my sack of potatoes.

"No, it's not about unpure thoughts," worker bee #3 shot back. "It's just when they go to the bathroom. If they soil any part of their body, they need to clean it up."

Whatever the reason, I just never expected to witness such brazen public bathing. The sign did specifically say "hands," not "balls." I highly doubt I misread it.

I didn't want this guy to get fired for practicing his religion, however, I did find it necessary to go on a men's room mission. I suggested the three worker bees tell their manager to figure out a way that dude could wash his privates in private.

It was also interesting that the business would go to such great lengths to ensure health and safety by banning smoking inside the building, while letting a serial ball washer run amok. That's great they care so much about my lungs, but what about my eyes? My baby blues don't need to be subjected to such nutty behavior.

It's a free country and I am 100 percent behind everyone's right to freedom of speech and religion. But this guy was washing his gonads. In the sink.

If he's going to be so ballsy in public, why not let it all hang out? Why didn't he go to the local bowling alley? I hear they have machines that polish your balls so good you can see your reflection.

Call me old-fashioned, but there's only one profession I can think of where it is acceptable to display your club and bag, then wash your balls in front of anyone who happens by. And while he may have even been practicing his grip and swing with his wood, this guy was definitely no Tiger.

Wednesdays with Maury

2005-09-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

I've heard of couch potatoes. I think my cat Ringo is a couch potato curl.

One minute he's lounging normally, as in the picture to the left. But the next minute he "does the twist" (see photo below) and there isn't even a Chubby Checker song playing. He cranks the middle of his body around as if trying to transform himself into a feline pretzel.

You'd think a position like this would require a trip to the vet, or even cause paralysis and permanent confinement to a kitty wheelchair. But it's normal for Ringo. When he achieves his most "comfortable" position, he'll either snooze or just hang out. Sometimes he'll watch TV.

I've tried to broaden Ringo's horizons by reading some really great stuff by my favorite authors David Sedaris or Chuck Klosterman, but he's more into visual stimulation. I'm more Tuesdays With Morrie while Ringo is more Wednesdays with Maury - as in Maury Povich's TV show.

He solidified this belief Wednesday morning at 9:23, when he relentlessly rubbed up against me, nudging his head under my arms and hands, and meowed constantly until I was completely conscious. Normally, he'll let me sleep in a little longer, especially considering I only got to bed around 5 or 6 A.M.

But Ringo was on a mission. It seemed like something needed my urgent attention, like he wanted more food in his dish, a refill of his water glass, or his cat shitter cleaned out. As I was trying to decipher what he wanted to bring to my attention, he collapsed next to me and spun himself into a licorice twist. Then he gazed toward the TV and let out a really weird "meow" while yawning. It almost sounded like he had said "Meeaurrry!"

I looked up at the TV and saw Maury Povich. Apparently, Ringo wanted to watch Maury's most recent trainwreck. Although the TV was muted, I needed no volume for the show's topic to catch my attention: "You're the 13th man tested, are you my baby's Daddy?"

I turned up the volume and Ringo immediately started purring. The only thing that would have made him happier would have been to cook him up a little Kitty TV Dinner featuring fish sticks and a tasty catnip cherry cobbler for dessert.

I guess it's only natural he would be interested in people who cat around. Maury's special guests must have been in utter and complete "heat" because it sounds like every Tom, alley cat and stray were after those pussies.

The first guest was back on the show for the fourth time, bringing a sixth man-slut in to prove he was the father of her 2-year-old son. She was 200 percent sure he was the daddy. Coincindentally, her percentage that she was sure who the father was increased with each paternity test (thanks to flashbacks to past Maury shows).

"Maury, I'm 100 percent sure he's the father... I'm 120 percent sure this time... I'm 150 percent sure he's my baby's daddy!" she blabbed in the clips leading up to this episode. "It's different this time. This time I'm 200 percent sure I brought the right one!"

Wrong! Of course, he wasn't the father. Maury didn't even have to open the big-ass results envelope to tell us that. So now she has to go find a lucky seventh guy who might be her baby-daddy. Maybe she'll be 250 percent sure next time, since being two times 100 percent sure isn't sure enough. I've heard of playing the percentages, but this woman was out of control.

The only conclusion I came to was that she was 100 percent for sure a "Ho." Hell, who am I kidding? I was 200 percent sure!

The final part featured some hillbilly chick to have a 13th guy tested in hopes she would figure out who the father of her child was. Around the time of conception, maybe she was cruising guys at the Dunkin' Donuts to snare her fabulous baker's dozen boys.

Then again, it's possible she wasn't a total skank. Maybe Maury's paternity testers were just struggling with that tricky DNA what with all the inbreeding in the hills.

It was an amusing half hour, but watching 30 minutes of paternity testing was really draining. I spent 177 percent of the time laughing, 22 percent of the time asking the question "Are you fucking kidding me?", and 1 percent of the time feeling sorry for Connie Chung.

I needed another cat nap, so I put the remote control next to Ringo so he could watch whatever he wanted.

Ringo looked like he had seen enough, too. Maybe after that episode of Maury, he'll decide to stick with watching Tom & Jerry cartoon reruns and Animal Planet programming (he's a huge fan of shows featuring lions, tigers, jaguars, leopards, etc.). Then again, maybe he'll wake me up later for Jerry Springer.

Fantasy Island Football

2005-09-12T04:16:00.000-07:00

There was a time when men talking about fantasies didn't involve football. Maybe that's the reason I have yet to participate in a fantasy football season.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a football junkie. I watch the college games every Saturday and the pros all day Sunday and Monday night. I used to play in high school at Bismarck (N.D.) St. Mary's. I was a sportswriter for 8 years, and my favorite beat was football.

My current mental state does not allow me to hook up the word "fantasy" with "football," unless some of the Minnesota Vikings Cheerleaders, pom-poms, and a hot tub are involved. Then I could probably deal a little better. I just can't shake the potential sexuality of the word.

Several guys I know have a spirited discussion about who was going to make their fantasy list every August. This year, the hot names on the list included Peyton Manning, LaDamian Tomlinson, Priest Holmes, Daunte Culpepper and Marvin Harrison. Meanwhile, my fantasy list consisted of my wife, Sela Ward, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Teri Hatcher and Tanya Memme, thus totally shutting me out of the conversation.

I've got to do something about this tunnel vision problem I have with the word "fantasy." It's fine that someone's fantasy is watching Edgerrin James rush for 175 yards and three touchdowns, ensuring that he will have enough points to beat fantasy league opponent Earl that week. Whatever gets you off. But that doesn't do it for me yet.

That's why I would suck at fantasy football. When the word "fantasy" comes into play, my mind would wander off the grid-iron in a heartbeat. I'd be thinking too much about silky smooth skin and not enough about pigskin, and would get my ass handed to me on a silver platter every week.

"Hey, Rocky, who's your top fantasy pick this year?" some 20-year-old kid frantically asked me at work Saturday night, on the brink of orgasm that a full slate of NFL games would be kicking off just 12 hours later, starting his fantasy season in full swing.

"Mr. Rourke without a doubt," I replied. "He's a stud. By far the best player on my board."

"Rourke?" the kid asked. "Who the fuck is that? Never heard of him. What position does he play?"

"I'm not sure of his position, but that guy can just take over the whole damn show," I said. "He'll make any fantasy wish come true. I think he even beat Satan once."

"He wasn't even picked in our entire draft," the kid said, wringing his hands over potentially missing a hot fantasy prospect. "I wonder if I could still claim him."

"As long as you're at it, you should also look into drafting that darkhorse Tattoo," I said. "He's really short, but that little fucker sure can run! He can do a 4.4 40-yard dash up a bell tower when he sees de plane coming in!"

My attempts at humor were totally lost on this kid, who obviously was too young to remember Fantasy Island, a Saturday night TV staple from 1978-1984 (Who didn't get stuck watching it right after The Love Boat?).

I was just a young pup when the show was on, but Fantasy Island was still a bit confusing for me. I wondered why more of the guys ponying up $50,000 to Rourke for their fantasy didn't just ask for a date with their dream woman. A few of them did, but most wanted to do something else for the weekend, like be a millionaire, a spy, or a famous baseball player. Even at the luau party thrown in the island guests' honor, my mind would have been focused on trying to get laid rather than leied by one of Rourke's hula chicks.

Back then, I would have told Rourke my fantasy was to lose my virginity during a roll in the hay with Jaclyn Smith.

Rourke would have shoved a jumbo margarita in my hand, then toasted me with his famous words "Smiles, everyone! Smiles! I'm Mr. Rourke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island." Minutes later, fantasy would become reality, and I'd be the boss of a trio of female private investigators, barking the following orders over a speaker phone: "Jaclyn, this is Rocky. Bring Farrah and Kate. I have some privates for you to investigate."

Rourke would probably put an evil twist on my fantasy to teach me some sort of lesson for being so horny. Maybe he'd have that psycho bitch Farrah tell me she was pregnant five minutes after doing it.

Then again, maybe he'd double my trouble and send over the rest of the Angels (Cheryl Ladd, Shelley Hack and Tanya Roberts), but insist the only way to make the magnificient 7 fantasy happen would be to let Bosley get in on the action, too, and make it a crazy 8 (which would be like telling me the only way I'd get in Mrs. King's pants was to include Scarecrow in a threesome).

Then 45 minutes later, I'd be boarding the Fantasy Island float plane, smoking a cigarette with my brains fucked out, waving goodbye while Rourke fed that little perv Tattoo all the dirty details.

Just for the record, watching Tattoo race up the bell tower staircase and yell "De plane, de plane!" at the start of every episode of Fantasy Island was not a fantasy - I'm not that into little dudes. However, it was a recurring comedic dream come true.

Now, 20 years later, my taste in fantasies isn't so over the top, yet it's even better. Tops on the list would be to have my wife dress up like Wonder Woman. Sure, she's only 5-foot-3 and would need some really high red platform boots to reach Amazon status, but I'm sure she could score a costume, bitchin' bracelets and a golden lasso. She's every bit the beauty Lynda Carter was in the day, and would get me totally hot talking sexy about receiving contact lenses by mail.

Fair-y Tale

2005-09-05T19:24:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a plump prince named Rocky went to the Minnesota State Fair and marveled at how many different foods could be served on a stick. First there were just corn dogs, but soon items you normally wouldn't envision on a stick popped up like cheese, pork chops, key lime pie and spaghetti and meatballs.

Needless to say for the past five years, all of this food on a stick at the Minnesota State Fair beckons me like it's a big-ass porch light and I'm a maniacal moth.

My wife (AKA My Fair Lady) and I usually take a free shuttle bus to the event because the idea of paying $10 to park 13 blocks away is about as crazy as paying $12 for a small plastic bucket of chocolate chip cookies. So we always do the sensible thing and take the free bus and buy the cookies for dessert on the ride home.

Normally, the bus ride is pretty uneventful, but this year was different. While boarding, we met an old woman, and despite this story's fair-y tale beginning, she didn't live in a shoe or have dozens of children. She was our shuttle bus driver.

She was a sweet old gal, but something caught my eye on the way to my seat. I couldn't help but notice the large strand of shiny green beads hanging from her rear view mirror. These were the kind of beads you see college chicks get for flashing their tits at Mardi Gras. Maybe she lived at a really hip retirement community where they do Mardi Gras Night instead of Bingo Night. I was tempted to ask her what she did to earn the beads, but didn't for fear of being subjected to a live show of Old Lady Bus Drivers Gone Wild.

Upon arrival at the Fairgrounds, we decided to work up an appetite by walking around for a while. We browsed the animal exhibits as these have historically offered some of the best humor of the day. This year's entries didn't disappoint.

The Fair made me realize I'm totally behind the times when it comes to animal fashion sense. I know some rich bitches like dressing their Yorkies in little designer sweaters, but the fashion bug seems to have bitten the bigger animals now, too.

Take the black sheep wearing white covers and hoods. Some sheep shearer would probably tell me there's a reason for these duds, but my guess is the sheep are making a fashion statement: They're wearing white because there is virgin wool under their garments.

But nothing could compare to the new stylish sheep speedo. That flashy blue not only shows off the lamb chops, it's great for a dip in any farm pond.

With fashion like that in the sheep barn, it made me wonder why Joan and Melissa Rivers weren't on the red carpet as the livestock was being unloaded, shrieking "Who are you wearing?!" to the farmers. Sure, all the farmers would be wearing Wrangler jeans and Dickies flannel shirts, but the animals would be wearing the hottest styles by top barnyard designers.

Things were really heating up down the road in the swine barn. This picture doesn't show pigs in a blanket, but they could probably use one. When I saw this preliminary porking, I yelled "Get a pigpen!" Once pigs start spooning, it's only a matter of time before things start sizzling. My Fair Lady and I left because we wanted the term "makin' bacon" to remain a silly sex term instead of being tied to an image of actual screwing pigs.

In the cattle barn, stats were posted everywhere about how much bovines shit or piss. One sign read: "Fascinating fact: Dairy cows urinate 1.9 times more on average than regular cows." I'm surprised the sign in the picture didn't have a banner above it saying "You're not gonna believe this shit!" This was especially trying for My Fair Lady, who already has to hear daily how much I shit and piss.

Then I started to feel sorry for the poor statistician who had to do all the field work to come up with these numbers. How many cows taking a dump did he have to analyze to come up with his "average." Hopefully this poor bastard kept reminding himself "It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it!"

I was also fascinated by gamblers' ability to invade any event. Sure, we were 30 miles from the nearest casino, but some hustler had set up a "Moo-Lette" wheel for kids to spin. I have no idea what a "winning" spin would get, but I'm guessing anything from a glass of milk to a side of beef. I heard a rumor that one kid lost his ass playing this game, and confirmed this later when I saw the donkey eating hay in the horse barn.

In the poultry area, My Fair Lady took a picture of this goose doin' time. We couldn't find the warden to ask how long he was in for, but we assumed he was being held for trying to embezzle a golden egg.

In an adjacent dairy building, a different kind of gold was on display: Butter sculptures of several State Fair beauty queens. My Fair Lady lets me view this exhibit alone because when I see these buttery busts, I start talking dirty. This year, I mortified people within earshot by saying things like "make out with her, and your cholesterol will shoot up 200 points" or "I wonder where they keep their butter legs? I want to spread them on a piece of Texas Toast!"

The signs in the Horticulture Building said "Please do not touch the flowers." One kid didn't bother to read the sign and got to third base with all of them. He must have been part bumblebee. I swear he cross-pollinated most of the room singlehandedly.

Now it was time for My Fair Lady and me to chow down. We started gorging on cheese curds until something by the french fry booth caught my eye. I started looking for a gigantic salt shaker until My Fair Lady informed me this was just some teenager wearing a wild 'n wooly mascot suit, not a really fuckin' biggie size fries. My guess is this poor kid would have preferred to be submerged in cooking oil rather than wear this goofy get-up complete with the Antarctic-approved gloves in the 90-degree heat while standing next to the 150 degree french fry stand.

After eating everything but the kitchen sink on a stick, I was too full by the time we passed the German Roasted Nuts booth. That was OK because I was afraid to ask what these folks were really serving. The guy taking orders was wearing lederhosen and had a really high voice. Hopefully that was just coincidence. Still, I didn't have the balls to order them.

Who's the cheesiest of them all?

2005-08-30T05:12:00.000-07:00

While at work the other day, something sidetracked me from my all-important supervisory duties. An advertising slogan on one of the display pallets in our food warehouse asked "Are you one of the cheesiest kids in America?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. What a cheesy ad campaign! I know I'm getting older, but does "cheesy" still mean what it used to? Did the Webster's elves pull another switcheroo like when they made the word "bad" actually mean "good." Cheesy used to define something that was totally lame.

I checked my dictionary to confirm my suspicions...

Cheesy (pronounced chee-zee), adj. cheesier, cheesiest. 1. resembling or suggesting cheese especially in consistency or odor; containing cheese. 2. Slang. Shoddy, inferior, shabby or cheap.

My conclusion: Kraft is safe and lives up to both definitions. Add a cup of milk and a stick of butter to the pouch of cheddar powder found inside the box and Emeril would say "Bam!" as he stirred the elbow noodles into a vat of cheesy consistency. The product is also cheap: You can usually pick up a box for just over a buck.

Now totally amused, I removed an individual package from the pallet display for a closer look. It turns out this is a contest sponsored by Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to find the "cheesiest" kids in America. If you can prove you're one of the "cheesiest," you could win big prizes like a trip to Orlando, a $5,000 scholarship, or even get your picture on the front of the box itself! Be still, my cheese-clogged heart!

There are two age groups - 6 to 10 and 11 to 14. You have to show how you are the cheesiest kid by submitting one of the following: A 100-word essay, a picture or drawing, or a 2-minute video.

Now I was bummed out. Hey, I can produce something every bit as cheesy as that golden sawdust Kraft considers cheese. But those heartless bastards forgot to put in a category for us 36-year-olds.

If I'm upset at this, I can't imagine how Katie must feel. She was that young girl from the old Kraft commercials who was always all bitchy, complaining to her friends, mother and stuffed animals how the product's name should be changed to Katie's Cheese and Macaroni. Maybe as she got older, she became even more high maintenance and Kraft dumped her like spent boiled water.

I know the age constraints of Kraft's contest rule me out, but I wish the company would reconsider its stance. Here's proof I am the "cheesiest man" in America:

Who's your Mac Daddy? Me!

But I'll need more than 100 measley words to prove it. If some 12-year-old cheesy wanna-be gets that many words, I deserve triple because I'm easily three times older, wiser and cheesier.

First, when I'm in the supermarket, I just blow by the frozen food section. Stouffer's claims it uses real cheese in its macaroni and cheese, but why pay $3 for it when I can score a box of Kraft's powdery cheddar goodness for $1.19?

I rush home and start cooking. Sometimes if I can't wait the 7-10 minutes to boil the water and prep the noodles, I'll just get the Easy Mac so I can chow down in 90 seconds or less. But usually, I'll make a "Family Size" pack the old-fashioned way.

When it's done, fuck the bowls. I usually just carry the whole pot to the couch and dig in with the serving spoon. My wife steers clear of the living room the next 15 minutes for fear of getting tagged with cheesy shrapnel.

After the meal, I have to go out to the driveway so my wife can spray those stubborn yellow cheese sauce stains off of my face, hands, chest hair and back with the power washer.
I bet Jessica Simpson would don a bikini in a heartbeat for a chance to scrub me down like I was the General Lee. But "Daisy" probably wouldn't take the time for details like my wife does, dabbing my chin with paint thinner to peel off that golden cheesy noodle tan from my chin.

In conclusion, aside from being an economical shopper, my arteries are now 80 percent clogged due to heavy cheese consumption over the last three decades. I also constantly cut the cheese. You can't get any cheesier than that!

If you don't like my story, please enter the enclosed picture into the contest instead. I drew it all by myself without any help from my parents!

Fun with Haiku!

2005-08-29T19:00:00.000-07:00

Shit my kimono
Very devastating stains
Where's the laundromat?

Shakedown, Breakdown, I'm Busted!

2005-08-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha' gonna' do? Whatcha' gonna' do when they come for you?

Maybe the allure of a COPS TV camera would have given me enough temporary insanity to prolong the "chase." That would have provided the time to pound a 12-pack of Old Milwaukee beer just before road spikes deflated my tires. After driving on my rims for a mile and really making some sparks fly, I could have jumped out my truck while it was still moving. After a 50-yard dash and a hogpile by 10 deputies, I'd be an instant crime reality TV star.

But I just pulled over instead.

I'll rewind this story a bit to catch you up to speed. I had just gotten off of work at 11:15 PM Thursday night in Bloomington and started taking the scenic 18-mile route home to St. Paul. The speed limit on the curvy four-lane road I take for about half the trip is 35 MPH. I always see a cop on that road, so despite my 100 percent German ethnicity, I don't think it's the autobahn.

I was driving through the last big curve on the road and saw there was a car ahead of me doing about 25. Naturally, I switched lanes to the left to pass the slowpoke. That's when I saw The Fuzz coming from the opposite direction.

Instinct made me immediately look down at my speedometer. The needle was just under 40. I looked in my rear view mirror, where I spot The Fuzz doing a quick U-turn as if I'm behind the wheel of a Krispy Kreme delivery truck. I was a bit confused because it was just me and slowpoke on the road. I thought he surely must be going to protect and serve someone else, but he stuck to my truck like a bumper sticker.

This is never a good sign. Sure enough, about a half mile later, The Fuzz lights up the cherries of his black-and-white Adam 12 squad car, so I pulled over.

As the officer walked up to the car, I immediately noticed he was about 5-foot-4, 130 pounds and didn't look a day over 16. He should have been policing the acne on his face, not pulling me over for some mystery violation.
The kid looked fresh out of the Police Academy, but seemed too young to have a cool cop name like Hightower or Tackleberry. My mind started to wander as to what nicknames he might potentially have at the police station. Maybe it was Gummi Bear. Perhaps it was Peach Fuzz. I decided Dirty Harry Potter fit him the best.

"License and proof of insurance, now!" he interrupted, shining a flashlight in my face with one hand while keeping the other on his service revolver just in case I tried anything "funny."

"Sure, I can get you those documents, but may I ask why you pulled me over?" I replied.

"You were going a little fast, weren't ya?" Dirty Harry Potter snapped. "Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

"Yeah, I have a pretty good idea," I said. "I was going about 38, maybe 40."

"I clocked you at 50!" Dirty Harry Potter yipped.

"50?! No way!" I said.

"I don't want to hear it!" he yelled. "Just give me your license and proof of insurance now!"

I gave him my license right away and start looking for my insurance card.

"Do you own this vehicle? Do you even have insurance on this vehicle?" he asked, probably thinking what a lowlife I was, all sweaty and unshaven, driving my rusty but trusty 1994 Ford Bronco.

"Well this isn't O.J.'s Bronco," I joked, trying to lighten the mood. "And yes, it's insured. I've got the card, just give me a minute to find it."

Dirty Harry Potter starts grilling me with a line of questioning that leads me to believe he thinks I just left a bar instead of a grocery warehouse.

"Where did you just come from?" Dirty Harry Potter asks.

"Work," I reply.

"Where's work?" he asks.

"Just a few miles back at the Chowtime* Food Warehouse," I reply.

"Oh, yeah, and where's that?!" he asks, obviously unconvinced it exists.

This area of Bloomington is sparsely populated and spread out. The food warehouse is huge, over 300,000 square feet. Not knowing that it exists in the neighborhood he regularly patrols is akin to Gorbachev's wife not noticing that huge red stain on his forehead.

But I gave Dirty Harry Potter detailed directions on how to get there anyway and told him he can do a stakeout with Richard Dreyfus and Emilio Estevez to prove I show up for work each day.

"OK, I guess I believe you," Dirty Harry Potter said. "Keep looking for that insurance card. When you find it, hold it out the window."

I start searching for my insurance card again. Usually I have all documents in place, but for some reason, I was having a hell of a time locating that card. Dirty Harry Potter was losing his patience, but maybe it was because he was in a hurry to attend night classes at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Well, tell you what I'm gonna do tonight," he said raspily. "I'm only gonna cite you for the speeding. I'll let you go for not providing proof of insurance."

"You're not really giving me a break on anything," I replied. "I can prove I have insurance at your station tomorrow morning and that citation would get thrown out anyway. I wasn't even close to going 50."

"Yes, you were!" he squeaked, handing me the citation.

"Oh, I was not," I said.

"Too!" he yipped.

"Then I want to see it on your radar," I demanded.

"We don't do that," Dirty Harry Potter said. "It's erased now anyway. But I got you going 50 and leading traffic!"

How fitting that Dirty Harry Potter had made the radar reading disappear. And how was the one car I was "leading" considered traffic?

Dirty Harry Potter told me to slow down and started to walk back to his motorized broomstick. I started reading the information on the citation, which lists a flat fee for any moving violation at $142. Now I was furious with that son-of-a-witch. Luckily, I controlled my urge to flip off Dirty Harry Potter as his radar would have read 200 without a doubt.

"Don't worry about it," insisted one of my co-workers yesterday afternoon. "Fight it. They'll probably just make you pay court costs. They might even hold the speeding ticket from going on your record if you don't get another one for a year."

That might be a longshot with Dirty Harry Potter casting his spells on the roads I take to work every week in Bloomington, where all types of law enforcement seem to hate me.

Need proof? One night on my way home from work, I pulled over at a grocery store to pick up some supper. I parked next to a K-9 police car. The German Sheperd inside was going nuts, as if I was a bank robber or drug dealer.

"Settle down, Rin Tin Tin," I scolded him. "The 50 pounds of crack down my pants is the legal kind - Buttcrack!"