John Eustice

John Eustice is a nice enough fella I suppose. He's helped promote bicycle racing, he's been around a while, and he has some decent concepts and ideas.

But as a bicycle race announce....no let's broaden that considerably...as a sports announcer in general, he's totally unbearable. He's really the worst ever.

Here are a few of the foundations of any Eustice announced event.

The Italian

Regardless of the circumstances, John has to let the audience know that he can speak Italian. At first this was not that obvious as the first few winners of the Philadelphia race happened to be Italian. But over the years, John has had to go further and further down the results in order to find someone to showcase his bi-lingual skils. Hey John, we get it...bueno...or belisimo...or whatever. When you're interviewing the mechanic of the team who's Dutch rider got third in order to slip in a couple of words...maybe it's time to let it go. Save the showboating for ordering Linguini at dinner.


The Misidentification

This was epitomized perfectly in last Sunday's race when John spent 3 minutes butchering an explaination of the sport of cyclo-cross in honor of a rider that he identified as " cyclo-cross star Tim Johnson of the HealthNet team".

When he finally took a breath someone must have clued him in and he politely reidentified the rider as Amber someone or other who was on a solo break in the woman's race.

My first thought was, " what tipped you off John ? Was it the distinctly different colored jersey or the fact that Tim Johnson doesn't have a giant pair of tits ?"

The numbers

The numbers....ohhhhh the numbers. Eustice spews out numbers like a retarded Rainman. If one number is good enough for John then five numbers has to be better.

" T-mobile has 3-4-6, up to 7 riders at the front of the field."

He's like a bingo caller.

" The field is reaching speed of 20-22-24-30.....34 miles per hour and when your going 20 to 24 and up to 30 or 32 miles per hour, that's tiring"

B-13...O-64....BINGO !

The comparrisons

Cycling is like poker....cycling is like baseball...cycling is like cooking...cycling is like boxing.....and it goes on and on and on....

And while that, in and of itself, doesn't seem all that bad, consider the fact that in none of those instances does he ever make the analogy stick. For instance,

" Cycling is like football.....like football on a field that 800 yards....with 8-10-12 teams...all fighting and pushing...and that's why Lance Armstrong struggled as a young cyclist"

A football game with 10 teams ? And 800 yards ? Seriously...WTF are you talking about ? And as for Armstrong, the guy won a tour stage, the tripple crown, and the world championships all when he was barely old enough to drink the champaign. Fuck, according to this anology Armstong should be coaching the Eagles.

And finally the coup de gras

The final call

As a set-up to this point I should mention that an overriding principal to any Eustice announcement is that fact that his volume and inflection does not alway coincide with what's happening. Sometimes he emphasize a WORD in a sentence THAT HAS no significant to what HE'S trying to ephasize...while other times he just gets all excited and draws your attention to something that's really mundane..." LOOK AT THAT RIGHT THERE..HE'S SHIFTING !!!!"

Much of the above comes togeather at the greatest of all Eustice moments...the final call. As the riders charge toward the finish John works himself into a frenzy like an epileptic dog who's been slapped with a bloody steak. Some time around 300 meters to go he just starts screaming semi-coherantly at the top of his lungs. Typically he'll pick a rider or a team, I should add regardless of whether or not their in the race at the time, and just go with it.

" AND HERE THEY COME DOWN THE STRETCH AND IT'S TEUTENBURG LEADING THE SPRINT....TEUTENBURG...TEUTENBURG..TEEEEUUUUTEEEENNNNBBBBUUUUURRTGGGGG......TEUETUENEUTHDSIEGNEITHVATGIANWTGIIBBBBUUURRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGG...............and Sara Uhl wins....with McRae in second and Thompson in third."

the ONLY reasonable candidate - seriously

if my kids..

..want to play games with me, they better be prepared to bring it...cause i don't lay down to anyone.

Ric Flair knows what I mean...

Do you think...

....the Jesus ever got turned down ?

The Bible is filled with stories about how he put the band together. How he went around and called on guys and they dropped everything and started following him.

But do you think that the bible left out any parts where it might not have gone so well ?

I mean with all due respect, he was asking quite a bit. I could see him rolling up to some guys and saying, " Hi, I'm Jesus. What are you guys up to ?"

" We're going fishing."

" Well I am the fisher of men "

" You're going to be a fisher of kicks to the head if you don't stop bugging us !"

Then again Jesus was a charasmatic dude, so if anyone would bat 100% I suspect it would be him.

Dr. Flick

I once dated this girl who was a nursing student. She was mostly a pain in the ass, but she was really good at the sex thing, so of course I was smitten.

On one Thrusday evening I had designs on taking her out, getting her drunk, then doing my best to talk her into coming back to my place. It was really quite the plan. The only catch was that she had a project to do at the computer lab with the other students in her class, but that I could roll over around 9 pm and pick her up there.

At nine I strolled into the computer lab to find a gaggle of frantic nurses-to-be. They had been working on the project for hours and apparently it hadn't gone well. Worse yet, it also became apparent that whatever issues they were having were putting my chances of getting laid in jeopardy.

The project they were working on was a computer simulation that required them to move a sick patient from 11,000 feet in elevation to 3,000 feet without killing the poor guy. To this point, they had been unsuccessful. Desperate to help my own situation I asked if I could give it a try.

The way it worked was that you'd stabilize the patient then click a button that would move him down 1,000 feet. The computer would then indicate if the patient was alive, dead, or somewhere in between.

Seeing as I didn't really know what I was doing, I just started fill the dude up with everything in the medical kit. Vasodialators, vasosuppressors, morphine, whatever...the bastard was getting down the mountain and I was going to be sitting in a bar with a cold beer and then figuring out how to undo a front clasp bra, one way or another.

So I clicked the button...

11,000 feet...no problem.

10,000 feet things started to go screwy....I jacked him up again... clapideral, nitrogylcerine, some more morphine, a shot of wild turkey, whatever..

CLICK for 9,000 feet....alive !!!! Majorly fucked up...but alive.

And so it continued 8,000.....7,000....6,000 each step of the way and with each click the computer would respond that the patient was hanging on by a thread....

At 4,000 feet I had to use the paddles on him.

You could cut the tention with a knife and beads of sweat formed on my forehead....I GOT A HEATBEAT BACK...more drugs...something...anything...I was shaking...so close, yet so far away, but I pressed on powered by the cheers of the small crowd that had formed behind me and by the thought that I was surely due a blowjob if I could just pull this last bit off.

I reached out a nervous finger and clicked enter.

3,000 feet.....ALIVE !!!!!! The room went crazy with cheering nurses-to-be, there were hugs all around, and a got a kiss that, if indicative of things to come, promised a very bountenous evening ahead.

In the middle of the furvor , one mousey looking girl walked over and tore off the print-out of the entire exercise that they were to turn in to the professor. As she riffled through the pages of dot-matrix laden sheets her eyes got big and she started for clamor for everyone's attention.

"Wait, wait, wait, hang on.", she tried to speak over the din.

She looked like a little kid who came down the stairs at Christmas morning and suddenly realized that his family being Jewish meant that there'd be no presents. She turned her gaze directly at me, " When you started at 13,000 feet..what was the first thing you did ?"

" I dunno, I think i gave him some oxygen and a shot or something..you're the one with the shee.."

" NO !", she cut me off abruptly and the room when silent, " I don't mean what's the first treatment you game him. I mean what was the first thing that you did when you sat down at the computer ?"

" Ahhh, I dunno..whatever..I think I hit go."

A collective groan coincided with everyone stealing paniced glances at each other and then they all began dejectedly looking at the floor...on the far side of the room one girl started to cry. After a moment everyone started walking back to their computers.

" Wha ?", I was stunned. I looked to my girl, " Wha ?". It was all I could muster.

She had an expression that I'm not sure that I had every seen before or since. It was equal parts sadness, distain and embarassment, but with just a tad bit of sympathy. I also got the sense that the sympathy was the only thing holding her back from driving staples into my head.

" You see, " she spoke with great effort, " the first thing that you were supposed to do was make the patient sick."

" He wasn't sick to begin with?"

" No, you have to assign him an illness. He was heathy at the top. "

" Well then...how did he almost....but I had to.... the paddles", I was starting to catch up now, " Oh......OH !"

"yeah," at this point she wasn't even making eye contact anymore.

" So I guess this means-"

"-yeah."

" Um, oh ok. I guess I'll...well...you know", and I shuffled out the door. I'd have happily traded places with the sick guy...paddles and all.

I might actually pee my pants

Which reminds me of this post last July
Heart attack man

Long ago, before the Flick children, before my current job, before I knew better, I may have sampled the weed now and again.

Typically what would happen is that I would be meeting up with my younger brother, who was in college at the time, and he would go about helping me "take the edge off”. As this was a prohibited activity as far as Mrs. Flick and my parents were concerned, this would often involve very complex and contrived scenarios to get us out of the house long enough to take care of business, get some gum, get some Visine, and then nervously reintegrate ourselves back into the family function. We were like the James Bonds of stoners.

In retrospect it was really far too much work, but at the same time I think that was half the fun.

After one particular escapade that was cut short, my brother said to me, "Here take the rest of this and put it to good use," and handed me the ragged remnants of a hand rolled “cigarette.”

About a week later on a Friday evening after a particularly stressful week, I thought that it was time to put the plan into action. The main problem was that Mrs. Flick was at home and does NOT in any way approve of said activities. So I immediately went into 007 mode. While she sat in the living room watching TV, I offered to cook us up some dinner. I pulled out a big kettle and started boiling up the spag. As she watched TV and I stirred the spag, the plan was put into motion....

Me: So how was your day, dear?

Mrs: Oh it was ... (while she talked I ran out to the garage, busted out the J, lit it, sucked as hard as humanly possible, held...held...exhaled...ran back into the house)...... ....and then we went out to lunch.

Me: OH WOW, that's great (stirring the spag). Where did you go for lunch?

Mrs: Oh we went over to the Olive Garden, the wait wasn't....(out the door again...lighting and sucking like I was trying to get a milkshake through a cocktail straw...huge breath....hold it....hold it...getting light-headed...blow...run back inside...stir)..........and the desert was terrific.

And this continued for like 10 minutes. Her talking, me running out to the garage, power smoking, and then rushing back in to pick up the conversation.

Finally, after a few minutes I realized that I was ripping high. I don't mean normal high, I mean that I was having a hard time figuring out how to use the ladle to stir the spaghetti. Remember I was a very infrequent user, a rank amateur if you will. In my frantic haste to get the job done, I may have...no make that I definitely overdid it.

So as I'm standing there, trying to speak, trying to stir, and trying to keep my head together, it started happening. The "IT" was my heart. It started going nuts....BOOM.............BOOM.....bababababababababababababab......long pause.....BOOM BOOM BOOM.....bababababab…

In retrospect, it's no wonder. In a 5 minute period I had taken about 10 HUGE breaths and held it as long as I could AND I had run back and forth as fast as I could from the kitchen to the garage 10 times both way. Drugs or no drugs my body had to be wondering what the hell was going on.

And so it continued...babababababab....BOOM......BOOM BOOM....

I started to panic..."OK, dude.... you're having a heart attack.....what did they tell you in boy scouts....hmmmmm....oh, I'm supposed to lay down and elevate my feet.....oh wait that's for shock....fuck....what do you do for a heart attack....OK check your left arms...that shit's cool.....OK....maybe if I lay down and put my feet in the air I can get all the blood to my heart. YEAH! That shit will work, I'll get all the blood to my heart and that will chill it out."

So I lay on the kitchen floor and put my feet up on the counter...taking long and slow breaths.

The whole time this is going on Mrs. Flick has no idea. From her perspective we're having a nice conversation. And seeing as I don't want to draw attention to my stone-assed heart attack situation, I tried to carry on the conversation as normal as usual.

The problem was that since I was laying on my back (having palpitations and trying to remember if I had made out a will) the tenor of my voice must have changed, bouncing off the ceiling and into the living room. This caused Mrs. Flick, who was relaxing on the couch, enjoying the beginning of her weekend, to look up curiously.

"Why are you laying on floor?"

"Ummmm, because.....ahhhh....now don't over react...but I think I might be having a heart attack."

"WHAT!?!?!??!?!?!??!" Mrs. Flick leapt from the couch and rushed to my side. “YOU’RE HAVING A HEART ATTACK? ARE YOU SERIOUS?"


"Yes,” I answered. The tears were starting to well up in my eyes...I was too young to die... “Honey, I love you."

"I'm calling the ambulance.” Now we were both panicked...she grabbed the phone and held my hand.

"Honey...just in case I should black out..."

"Yes?"

"Well...one of the first things that they'll want to know..."

"Yes?" She was dialing and trying to listen to me at the same time.

"Well they'll want to know if I've been on any medications."

"Right?" She looked at me sort of puzzled.

"Well you see....you have to tell them....for my own safety...you'll have to tell them that I may have just ...you know....smoked a bunch of marijuana in the garage."

She stopped dialing.

"YOU'RE NOT HAVING A HEART ATTACK, YOU ASSHOLE. YOU'RE HIGH." With that she stood up, threw the phone at me, and walked back into the living room leaving me lying on the floor like the idiot I am.

A dozen years on and I'm still not allowed out of sight with my brother, and we rarely have spaghetti without me getting at least one disgusted, disapproving look.

this guy has my vote

Brief Overview of Congressman Paul’s Record

He voted against the Patriot Act.
He voted against regulating the Internet.
He voted against the Iraq war.

He has never voted to raise taxes.
He has never voted for an unbalanced budget.
He has never voted for a federal restriction on gun ownership.
He has never voted to raise congressional pay.
He has never taken a government-paid junket.
He has never voted to increase the power of the executive branch.


He does not participate in the lucrative congressional pension program.
He returns a portion of his annual congressional office budget to the U.S. treasury every year.

Congressman Paul introduces numerous pieces of substantive legislation each year, probably more than any single member of Congress.

surprised that there's anything on the internet today besides this

From http://kevososlow.blogspot.com/

its all about the flow

Oh rickey you're so fine....

For all his accomplishments, you'd think snagging a foul ball in the stands would be small stuff for Rickey Henderson. Hardly the case.
Henderson, who caught a foul ball Monday at AT&T Park, where he was watching the Mets play the Giants, kept the ball instead of handing it to a young fan.

“Everybody was asking me for the ball,” Henderson said Tuesday, according to the Star-Ledger of Newark, N.J. “I said, 'You're not getting this ball. I always wanted to get a foul ball. This one's going on a shelf at home.' ”

The young fan didn't go home empty-handed, though, as Henderson signed another ball the kid already had.

Henderson, 48, joked that his catch in the stands shows he's still got the skills to play the game.

“Showing 'em I've still got good hands. The ball found me I was so quick.”

splain this

In the grocery store snack aisle why are the bags for the pretzels transparent, and the bags for the totilla chips tranparent, but you never see potato chip bag that you can actually see the contents ?

Do you think that made a traparent bag and what they ended up with was so hideous that they said, " We can never let the public see something so terrible " ? How bad can it be ?

I ask because I just opened a bag of Tostitos nacho chips and they came in a non-see-thru bag, which seemed odd.

It it possible that Totitos, after offering up nachos as a healthy alternative to the chip, has now switched gears and trying to make the nacho see more 'unhealthy'. Is this a portent that being a slob is coming back into style ? If so, does this make me a trendsetter ?

move over Bubb Rubb

hodgepodge....

....can't I can't spell potpourri.

In the last week or so I've...

- had a fat old man charge me like he was going to tackle me then pull up short and make threatening gestures. That conversation ended with me saying, " You can either leave or go to jail."

- Slept in my van for a couple of hours because I forgot my house key and didn't want to wake up my wife. For those keeping score at home, hypothermia beats out 'angry wife' 100% of the time.

- Mildred ( remember her ?) called up asking me, " what's up with the flying spheres that are zooming around in the sky at night. Is the government up to something ? " She also let me know she was concerned about some guy who was following her to the newspaper stand who, " walks like a gunfighter and has round hair where his forehead should be." Mildred son is out of town so she's a little lonely.

Here's a list of words that the guy across the hall from me uses instead of the regular English words that the rest of us use:

* AK LEAST for at least
* GEN-U-ER-LY for either generally or genuinely...we're not sure
* PICKS-T-CHURES for pictures
* I (pause) DRATHER for I'd rather
He's also fond of the words "caddyywhapus" and " rectallinear" the later which sends me into fits of laughter like a 5th grader.

You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around...

Groucho Marx said it best

Out of the blue I got a call last night, " Some of the teaching staff and parents were talking and we're wondering if you'd be interested in being Vice President of the PTA ?"

Given what you've read on the blog, you may find yourself sitting there with a bit of a surprised look on your face. IMAGINE HOW I FEEL !

I wrote PTA up above, but it might be PTO. If there is a difference I wouldn't know. Harper Valley had a PTA, I remember that from TV. I've also heard PTO thrown around from time to time. But the point is that it's not like I'm an active member of the organization. Why they selected me I have no idea...hell, I don't even know how they know who I am. Random draw perhaps ?

In any event, I immediately have to call into question the integrity of any organization that would choose me to be a member. What's wrong with those people ?

I was stunned enough to ask the guy for a day or two for me to think about it. On one hand, I always enjoy doing anything that's going the help out my kids. On the other hand, I'm really not sure that I'm capable of getting though a term without... shall we say...an incident. On the ....errrr...third hand, if I had a third hand, having me flip out on someone at an elementary school function would offer up some interesting stuff to write about.

This one I'm going to have to ponder for a while.

This morning's conversation

Mrs. Flick: What we need around here is a Libby Lu's.

Me: What's that ?

Mrs. Flick: It one of those places where you have a birthday party for little girls where they have makeovers and put on a fashion show.

Me: That's horrible. I can't imagine anything worse.

Mrs. Flick: You're ridiculous...name one little girls who doesn't like playing dress up ?

Me: JonBenet Ramsey ?

In case you were wondering

Abe Vigoda is still alive.

And I'm working on some stuff for next week. Thanks for your patience.

how NOT to play - for poker fans only

The following video propted this exchange.

AA: Did you see the video.

B: HAHAHA...Phil Iveys stare is the funniest part.

B: Did you notice Jennifer Tilly panting like a dog in heat.

AA: You mean they way her tits kept heaving up and down over and over ? No I didn't notice that at all.

hot commodities

Footage the other night included piranhas scavenging an injured fish in a flurry of activity that saw the victim go from fish to bones in a matter of minutes.

A similar event occurs at my house on a daily basis. Instead of piranhas I have my wife and kids. Instead of injured fish we have toilet paper, bottled water, and chips.

The toilet paper thing I think I've mentioned before. I initially thought that perhaps they were all mistaken and thought that you were to stick your finger in the roll hole and wipe with the entire roll. They've assured me, however, that they actually unwind the paper from the roll and use it as prescribed. Somehow though, I come home every week with a gigantic package of 50 rolls every Monday night...but every Sunday morning I find myself on the can paperless.

Don't tell anyone, but I've started hording the stuff and hiding it around the house.

The bottled water is a new phenomena. I drink water from the spigot. I'm no elitist. But my wife doesn't like the taste and insists that the kids also don't like the tap water ( but I've conducted my own secret experiments and have concluded that they wouldn't know the difference if i served them sewer water). So they have a Brita filter. The bite in my ass is that EVERY DAY I find the Brita either empty or with less than a glassful in the tank. I don't even drink from the friggin thing and I have to fill it every day.....its sort of like my daughters fish who's tank I change, but that's a different story. So aaaaaaanyway, whenever I have a poker game I buy bottled water for my guests. Without exception the piranha show the next morning. As early as the next afternoon I find half drank bottles of water all over the house. THEY DON'T EVEN FINISH THEM. I haven't had a case of water last until Wednesday...ever. The irony is that the Brita stays full.

And the chips should be pretty self explanatory. And it doesn't matter what chips they are...tortilla, potato, sun chips, whatever. If it's flattened and it chunches, it's gone. No bag of chips has made it more than 24 hours. WAIT that's not true. Often the chips get shredded down to a half inch of crumbs and then the bag is rolled up and tossed into the cabinet in favor of opening a second bag and shredding that down. Two weeks ago i purposely bought the most rancid flavor of chips that I could find...salt and vinegar or spinach and shrimp or something like that. I figured that way I could come home from work and have something...ANYTHING...to much on. I came home, opened the closet...nothing. All gone.

So I'm in the market for a foot locker or some sort of safe. It needs to be big enough for a case of water, two rolls of TP, and a bag of chips. Anyone selling, please contact me via the email address on the right. Thanks.

Sunday Night Line-up

In the absence of football, Sunday night television has been a waste land. That is until I came across the Discovery Channel Sunday night line-up.

First up PLANET EARTH

This show definitely lives up to the hype. Much of it in HD, much of it in high speed, and all if with the most amazing nature footage since Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. If you have kids, its really something that you'll enjoy and learn from together.

This is followed by MAN VS WILD

Here's the gig. The take this British Special Services dude and drop his ass somewhere remote and he has to get his ass out safely. Last night they put him at the top a Sierra Nevada mountain with nothing except a canteen, a knife and a flint.

In one episode the dude started a fire with a stick, ate a live snake, killed a rabbit with a stick, and came within inches of jumping on the back of a wild horse. Oh yeah, he also built a raft out of sticks and grape vines. He's like the real life McGuyver.

Add to that MythBusters, Dirty Jobs, and Deadliest catch and you have an awesome combination of reality/educations/entertaining television that might be unmatched. I'm baffled by the fact that major network television with all its resources is putting on stuff like The Bachelor and Super Nanny instead of quality programing like the stuff liked above.

It can't be rating numbers..because like George Castanza says when asked why people will watch something..." Because it's on television".

Hot Gril Challenged

I'm coaching my 8 year old daughters soccer team this season.

The team has been the same group of girls for 3 years, with the same head coach. Every season they have a different assistant coach. I hadn't considered how the team was alway able to find a parent to volunteer to help out at the last minute. If I had considered it, I might have seen what was coming.

At the first practice a gaggle of mothers conspired to blindside me..." you're athletic"..."the girls would appreciate it"...and " if you coach you don't have to bring a snack for the games "...and the next think I knew I had a whistle and clipboard.

It's all worked out for the best as I'm having a great time. The team is good, the head coach is a good guy, and it's given me some extra time with my daughter.

Hot Gril's role with the team is as their best scorer. She's not their best player, maybe not even in the top two, but by far she's always been the biggest kid and fastest one on the field. I've always felt that fact has hindered her skill development. Rather than have to learn how to control the ball or watch the rest of the field, she just kicks the ball as far away from all the other players as possible, then outruns everyone, goes the full length of the field and kicks the ball into the goal.

All that is about to change.

At the first practice this year, the coach introduced the team to their newest player. This girl who we'll refer to as New Gril is a little bit taller, a little bit faster, and just maybe a little, dare I say it, a little bit prettier than Hot Gril. All of this has not gone unnoticed and none of this is going down well in the Flick household.

On the drive home from the second practice Hot Gril asked, " Do you think New Gril is faster than me ?"

Now this gets a little touchy for a father so I went diplomatic, " Hmmm, I think it's pretty close."

" Well I think she's faster than me.", apparently 8 year old girls already know that 'diplomatic' is code for 'full of shit'.

I felt like this was one of those moments that you see in a bad Disney movie or a McDonald's commercial and that I needed to step it up into Daddy overdrive. " If she is a faster, it's only by a little little bit, but that's no big deal. All it's going to take is a little extra practice. I'll take you out and practice some more if you'd like.

" Really ?", she sounded a bit more hopeful. Maybe I'm getting better at this parenting stuff.

" Yeah," I continued, " That and you have to start playing with confidence."

" Con-fi-dence ? What's that", she asked puzzled.

" Confidence....hmmm....ok, this of it this way. Lets say you and someone who is just as fast as you...you're both totally equal....and you're both going for the ball. Who is going to be the first one to get there ? The first one to get there is going to be the one who really wants it the most and tries the hardest. The person who is going to get that ball is the person who believes the most that they're going to get that ball and nothing is going to stop them....that's confidence."

" Hmmmmmm", she mulled that over for a while, " confidence."

And that pretty much was the end of that conversation.

Next Monday brought a cold overcast evening and we put the girls through their drills and exercises for the first 15 minutes of practice. Finally the head coach said, " It's too cold, lets just have them scrimmage so they can stay warm."

He got out the pinnies and started handing them out as 10 hands shot into the air. Hot Gril being the tallest ( well now second tallest) grabbed the first pinnie. New Gril also started to grab a pinnie, saw that my daughter had one, and let go. She looked a Hot Gril, looked at the head coach and said, " I don't want a pinnie, I want to be on the other team." She then walked over the the left wing and set up directly across from Hot Gril.

Game on.

Now as a father, the whole thing had me nervous. It breaks my heart to see any of my children sad. But in the case of Hot Gril, seeing her distraught about anything doesn't break my heart, it smashes it, grinds it up into little pieces, and tosses it into the wind. The last thing I think I could take would be to see her spirit broken.

That being said, as a sports fan, this was shaping up to be really cool !

The game began and it quickly became apparent that New Gril was a cut above. It appeared that she probably hadn't ever played organized soccer before because she lacked some of the fundamentals, but she was a natural athlete and beautiful to watch.

For those of you who have never seen little kids play, you'd be shocked at what age that natural physical ability begins to show itself. I'm constantly amazed at what I see 7 and 8 year old kids do on a field. There is a kinestetic awareness that comes natural to some people and this girl has it. She knows where she is in relationship to the other players on the field at all times and she has the physical skills and size to force herself to where she needs to be. The only limiting factor, and this is inherant to soccer, is that most of the other kids are spazzing and flailing at the ball so much that regardless of what skills you possess, that most of the time, the ball is just bouncing around in a giant herd of kids.

Finally after a good ten minutes of playing, the inevitable happened. Out of the sea of legs and ponytails, the ball popped loose and shot to vacant side of the field. Immediately two figures shot out of the pack.

Hot Gril and New Gril popped out of the scrum like two thoroughbreds coming out of the gate at Churchhill Downs. Side by side they sprinted, knees kicking, arms pumping, neither one giving up an inch. The rest of the game sort of paused in time as we all became spectators to something that had very little to do with soccer.

As they got close to the ball New Gril's instincts started to kick in. My heart starting to sink as I anticipated what was coming next. Sure enough, New Gril's arm came out and she stuck he forearm into my daughter and started to lean into her for position. They continued at full speed, but steadily, and as surely the lump that started to form in my throat, she started steering my daughter away from the ball.

Just as I started to give up hope, something unexpected happened. Hot Gril suddenly stood up a little taller. Hot Gril lifted her right arm up under New Gril's elbow and into her ribs. And Hot Gril...no, not Hot Gril...MY DAUGHTER started leaning back !

They hit the ball at the same time in a furious collision of cleats and flesh. Call it what you will....fate...devine intervention...a forearm to the ribs....whatever ...but New Gril lost her balance and went ass-over-tea kettle, smashing to the ground. To her credit as a warrior, the girl never gave up the ghost. As she went rolling and skidding across the ground she never stopped kicking and trying to steal the ball away...I mean this girl is a killer. But on this day, on this time, it wasn't going to be enough. Hot Gril was gone. She took the ball the rest of the way down the field and as if to put an exclaimation point on the end of a beautiful sentence, blasted a shot past the goaltender and into the back of the net.

The rest of us trotted up to that end of the field and by the time we got there both girls were heading back toward us and both had huge smiles on their faces. Their paths met on the way back to midfield and as the coach dismissed everyone to go get a drink the girls gave each other a hug. The other teams in the league have no idea what they're in for.

I tried to stay cool and stuck out my hand for a high five as my daughter trotted past on her way to get her water bottle. " Good job out there" was about the best I could muster without embarassing both of us.

She reached up and gave me a little slap. With a broad smile and twinkle to her eyes said one word as she jogged by,

" Confidence"

Too funny to not post

back on track

Due to illness, general malaise, and circumstances beyond my control I was out of commission for a few days.

But I'm back on track and have a couple of things to offer. Check back here by 10 am tomorrow and I'll see what i can put together.

As a reward for your patience, here's a monkey washing a cat.

I'm empty

So you're going to get the YouTube treatment until I get it back

Rainman ?

Saved by Alanis

My job sucked a big hunk of my soul out last night. I left work at 9:30 pm and was having a hard time making coherant thoughts or finding any humor in life. Even some good company and a decent basketball game couldn't get me back to even.

I woke up this morning dreading work and feeling hollow.

Then I found this. Thank you Alanis Morissette for bringing a little humor into my life. Thank you Alanis Morissette from bringing back hope. Thank you Alanis MOrissette for you and your humps.

The Ultimate Fatso

I've become a big fan of MMA. For the uninitiated, that's mixed martial arts. It takes various forms on television as Pride Fighting, BoDog MMA, or the more visible version that's fought in an octagon cage, Ultimate Fighting.

Ultimate Fighting has been helped into prominence by a reality show run continuously on Spike TV called, aptly, The Ultimate Fighter. They take a handful of fighters, have them live together, train them, and them fight an elimination tournament. It's all fairly intriguing.

Like other reality shows, the people forced to live together don't always get along. But what differentiates itself from those shows is that you don't have a bunch of whining melodramatic drama queens screaming at each other. When people on this show don't get along then just go to the ring and beat the piss out of each other. That really eliminates a good portion of the smack talk.

In season 3 there was a guy who was being too rough during sparing. He was also being a douche around the house. People tried talking to him. People tried pointing out the error of his ways. People tried accommodating him. The guy just wouldn't budge. So one day at practice his first sparring partner kicked him in the head. The next guy gave him an uppercut. Sore jaw... Concussion... Problem solved.

The only thing about the show that I don't like...but provides great insight...is how a number of the guys who lose try and blame their failure on luck or chance. Other guys accept defeat by looking at what they did wrong and what the other guy did right in an attempt to improve their standing. In an arena where nothing is dependent upon chance, and where success and failure is stripped down to the basics, where you have two guys standing alone on their own abilities and preparation...the differences between the whiner and the non-whiner are glaring.

To me it shows that while victory might show who the better athlete was on that day, defeat is often the true test of a man's character.

Yeah, yeah, I know you didn't come here for a Tony Robbins infomercial but I'm out of fart jokes and poop stories this morning so deal with it.

I've come to the realization that I've become one of 'those guys'. What I mean is that for 15 years I was fit. At times very fit. And when I'd hear guys talk about how they had to 'get into shape' but they 'couldn't find the time' I'd roll my eyes and think that they were full of shit...which they were.

But I caught myself once again sitting on the couch lamenting the fact that I've gained, no joking, 30 lbs in the last two years. I was saying to my buddy, " I have to get into shape, I gotta get myself together."

I almost sounded like I meant it.

Then he looked at me and asked, " You mean you're not going to eat that ice cream or that you're not going to drink that beer ?" pointing at the two items sitting in front of me on the TV tray.

"I'm going to start tomorrow."

That time I sounded a little less convincing.

Salt and Vinegaaarrrrhhhhhhhh

I was let out of the house to go play poker last night with one directive, " bring me home a gallon of milk."

After 4 hours of cards, a six pack of strong beer, and a bag of salt and vinegar chips, I totally forgot about the milk.

I found myself at the convenience store this at 6:30 morning buying milk while hungover, bleery-eyed, and with a thick paste of salt and vinegar gunk coating the entire inside of my mouth.

I've spent the better part of the morning testing the corrosive qualities of coffee against the impenatrable properties of flavored potato chips.

After this I plan on spending the late afternoon looking to see if I can find a toilet that comes with a seat belt.

So, in short, no posting today. Have a good weekend and I'll see you Monday.

Classy

As a young gentleman with my first job out of school, I decided that I'd spend the new found wealth of my first paycheck on a young lady that I had been dating.

I had hoped to woo her with a fancy schmancy weekend at the shore.

We drove to Cape May, and playing 'grown-up' for the first time, checked into a beautiful bed and breakfast and then set upon the town. To further inpress my date I picked the fanciest restaurant I could find and did my best James Bond cool guy impression as we rolled up to the maitre d'.

" Good evening,", see how much cooler I was being than saying 'HOWDY', " We'd like a table for two."

" Very well sir. But the restaurant has a jacket policy."

I was a bit stunned, " A what ?"

" A jacket policy sir. All patrons much wear a dinner jacket."

AH SHIT. Here I was trying to impress this girl....ok screw it enough of the pretense...here I was trying to get laid ! and now this guy was laying some 'dinner jacket' bullshit on me.

He must have seen the look on my face because he followed up with, " But of course if you're here on vacation we do have a house jacket available for your service sir."

Obviously this guy had once tried to get laid himself.

The maitre d' walked went off the rescue me, but came back with a bit of a grim look on his face. He pulled me to the coat room away from my date, " sir, this is the largest jacket that we have, although I am concerned that it might be a bit short in the sleeves."

He held up the coat and I slipped it on. It was a little snug across the back but was doable. I held forward my arms and that's where we ran into trouble. The sleeves ran about half way up my forearms. I quickly put my arms to my sides and the sleeves slipped back down...not quite to my wrists, but if a slouched my shoulders a bit I could almost make it pass.

I looked at him with a hopeful look, " what do you think."

He was caught in a tough spot on this one. " Well, I dunno." the 'SIR' as well as all the affectation left his voice. We were now just two guys...one of whom was pretty well sunk...just having a conversation. " I think that if you try and keep your hands down by your sides you can probably get away with it."

So I put my arms down at my sides and we both put smiles on our faces and we went back out to the lobby. " This way ma'am", the maitre d' was back into character and lead my date out of the lobby with me lumbering in a stiff armed a gorilla walk through the restaurant behind her.

We sat at the table and rather than having to lift my arms out of my lap to look at a menu I went with one of the specials and ordered lamb chops. My date ordered the crab cakes. As we waited for the meals and sipped on the drinks, the anxiety over the jacket situation subsided and I relaxed and enjoyed my company and the surrounding atmosphere. Little else competes with the romance of an open-air dinner by the ocean and I was once again starting to feel like the king of the world.

Our dinners came out looking delicious. Oddly, in addition to bringing out our main course and side dishes, the waiter also brough out our deserts. My date had tapioka pudding and I had lime jello. The timing and the fact that we hadn't ordered desert seemed odd to me, but what the hell did I know. I'd never been to a fancy restaurant before. I didn't even own a jacket ! If they serve desert with the main course then that was fine with me.

I finished up my lamb and had successfully negotiated dinner with short arm motions that disgused the limitations of my jacket. To the trained eye I may have looked a little bit like a T-Rex eating, but at least I was a cool looking T-Rex. My date, who was growing more smitten with me by the minute, was too taken to have noticed a thing.

Then, in the middle of conversation, I reached over and took a heaping spoonful of the lime jello and stuffed it in my mouth.

As my date continued to make conversation alarms went off in my mouth. This was the most atomic jello I had ever had. And it wasn't lime. It was some sort of mint flavored horseradish 4 alarm jello...and my head was on fire. I still had a mouthful of the stuff and didn't know what to do. I very well couldn't spit a mouthful of the stuff onto a napkin...not unless I wanted to spend the night sleeping in the car...by myself. But I wasn't sure that I could swallow this mint flavored lava either. " Screw this", i thought to myself paniced, " down the hatch !". I took the stuff down with one big swallow and washed it down with a gulp of water.

I sat and pretended to be intently listening to my date's story. But after a while the profuse sweating and pallor of my face must have given me away.

" Are you OK ?", she asked, " you don't look very well."

" Oh I'm fine.", I sputtered and continued with my voice cracking a bit, " I think I just need a little water...everything's fine."

She summoned the waiter who rushed over, " Is everything OK sir ?"

" Yes, it's just that...oh my", I was really sweating by now and grabbed a fistfull of napkins and started mopping my brow...thus of course causing my jacket to yank all the way back to my elbow. At this point I didn't care anymore.

" It's just that this is the strongest jello that I have ever eaten in my life !"

The watier looked at me perplexed, " jello sir ?"

" Yeah this whoop-ass jello here is killer !" and I gestured to my bowl full of jello.

" Sir...ummm", he paused as if unsure to continue and then said apologeticly, " sir, that's not jello, that's a mint jelly. Our strong mint jelly is, of course, customarily served with our lamb chops as well as our leg of lamb."

Not knowing to leave well enough alone I pointed at my date's dish, " And her tapioka pudding ?"

" Tartar sauce sir"

" AH ! tartar sause. Yes of course."

So there I sat, in a romantic setting, with a beautiful young girl and the world before me...with my jacket up to my elbows, sweat pouring off of me, a belly full of jelly, and egg on my face.

I should have recognized it then as a portant of things to come.

Crazy Ole Melanoma Head

Last night was "Art Night" at the kid's elementary school.

They display a couple of pieces of each kid's artwork in a seemingly random fashion. Then packs of parents and screaming kids wander around in some sort of twisted Easter-egg hunting type ritual, all trying to find their kid's painting of a fruit bowl among the hundreds of other paintings of the exact same fruit bowl.

Oddly enough I find the entire thing kind of entertaining.

Anyway, I successfully found a piece my son had made and excitedly gestured to Mrs. Flick who was down the hall. When I got her attention in the crowded hallway I pointed to the right, where the artwork was, and almost hit some lady in the side of the head and startled her.

" Oh I'm sorry", I apologize, " I almost.....

and with that she turned around to look at me and right there in the center of her face was this gigantic nose.

and so I finished..." ...I almost poked you in the nose."

Meanwhile it was apparent to both of us that, clearly, I didn't come anywhere close to poking her anywhere near her nose.

There was a very awkward pause as both of us stared at her nose for a second. Then I mumbled something about it being really crowded and ran away as fast as I could.

The situation reminded me of this....




At 1:57 I start laughing uncontrolably... every time.

Genius.

Ball Cheese

I have a buddy who screens calls and it's a total pain in the ass.

I've been at his house and seen it in action. They turn the ringer all the way down so that you can barely hear it and they have the volume up on the answering machine speaker. So you'll be sitting around watching TV and suddenly you'll hear a BEEP and then some booming words, like the voice of God, reverberating through the house leaving an awkward message.

If they're not doing anything and want to talk to the caller, then one of the two of them picks up the phone. This isn't any less awkward because..
* This startles and confuses the person in the middle of leaving the message
* The person never knows whether to repeat what they've already said to just to continue
* The person had to go through the mental checklist wondering why they were getting screened and what made them unscreened-worthy

The situation, in my opinion, breeds inefficiency, distrust and bad feelings. Every time you call you never know if they're home or screening you... whether you should begin to leave a message or just wait for them to pick up. If they don't pick up...why not ? Are they sitting there chuckling at you ?

See what I mean ?

At some point I decided not to play the game any more. Actually that's not true. What I decided to do was to play my own game. When I called there I just started to leave annoying meaningless gibberish phone messages. I started making noises so annoying that if they were there, they'd be forced to pick up rather then endure. And if they weren't there, they could just turn off the message as soon as they realized it was me and could call me back to see what I really wanted. It was a foolproof plan, or so I thought.

One day I was pretty sure that they were home when I called to chat. Instead of the pick-up I got the usual machine message and readied myself for an onslaught of fart noises, snorts and clearing of my throat that had become my signature.

At the last moment something moved me and I decided to switch it up. Instead of the typical fare I thought I'd spice it up a bit. For reasons still unbeknownst to me the word "ballcheese" popped into my head.

Upon hearing the beep I let loose with a litany of ballcheeses.

BALLCHEESE.........BALLCHEESE...........BALLCHEESE.......

I started out slow and steady like the teacher from Ferris Beuller's day off saying Ferris' last name over and over.

BALLCHEESE.........BALLCHEESE...........BALLCHEESE.......

After I while,when they hadn't answered the phone I thought I'd pick up the pace a bit.

BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE, BALLCHEESE ( and the finisher) BAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLCCCCCCCHHHHHHHEEEEEEESSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !

The still hadn't answered and I figured that they just weren't home. I was going to stop there, but the words just kept flowing off my tongue...

BALLCHEESE

it was just so fun to say, so fun to play with..

BALLCHEESE

I messed with the inflection

ballCHEESE and BALLcheese

I went stucatto

BALCHE....BALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBALCHEBLACHEBALCHEBALLLCHEEEEEZZZZZ

I giggled like a school girl and went on and on filling up the tape with every variation and twist imaginable.

BAZIZZLE my CHIZZIZLE

And then the coup d'gras. I did a rendition of Sinatra's "Fly me to the Moon" replacing every other word with either 'ball' or cheese'.

“ Fly me to the ballcheese, I want to ballcheese among the ballcheese…” etc, etc, etc

Finally, mercifully, and with tears of joy in my eyes I signed off, " ahhhhhhh, this is Flick, please give me a call".

About 6 hours later I got a call from my buddy.

" Hey, whassup", I answered.

He was whispering and got right to the point, " Listen man I only have a second, my wife is in the other room. DO NOT call here again."

There was some laughter in my voice as I thought he was kidding, " like my message eh ?"

He wasn't kidding, " no, I'm not talking about don't leave any messages, I mean you can't call here anymore. I've forbidden to talk to you for, well, forever. But I think if you lay low for like 6 months or so this might blow over. Just don't call. Call me at work. Here she comes..."



I sat in stunned silence and was baffled until I was finally able to get him at work and get the rest of the story.

He explained, " You know how my wife's mother thinks we're too immature and wants my wife to be more proper and all ? Well she took her Mom out shopping and to lunch on Saturday and for the first time in a long time they had a nice afternoon. So nice that she invited her mother back to the house for some tea. They were sitting conversing when the answering machine went off. At first they both tried to ignore it, figuring you'd hang up after a second. After a minute it was too distracting to they just stopped talking and waited for it to be over. After 5 minutes of you screaming ball cheese at the top of your lungs they just gave up. She said her Mother politely excused herself and went into the bathroom. A little while later, after the reign of terror had subsided, her mother came up with some sudden excuse and left."

" They didn't find anything funny about it ?” ,I hoped against all hope.

" No “

“ Not even the Sinatra part ?”

“ Not even. “

“ Oh. That’s bad then.”

“ Yeah…… Bad.”

To this day I remain on probation. I leave only very polite, very succinct messages on their machine. And I avoid, at all costs, say either the words 'ball' or 'cheese' in her presence.

smack down

My wife called me last week to tell me that the school called our home to say that our son was involved in some fisticuffs at school.

This was a surprise because, as I've mentioned before, the boy is pretty passive. I won't go so far as to say that he's a pushover, but more often than not he’s content to just go with the flow and follow whomever is being assertive.

I should also point out that the boy is gigantic. He's the biggest kid in 1st grade, and almost the biggest kid in second grade.

He can also pack a punch. When he was taking karate he had a board breaking class. When he was getting ready for his competition he put on hit get-up and took out some sort of modified boxing glove for breaking boards.

I said to him, " go ahead give me your best shot."

He laughed and gave me a tap.

" No, I'm serious", I said, " go ahead."

" My teacher says I should never hit anyone unless they're attacking me."

" No, its ok, its just for fun. Show me what you got."

And with that the boy shrugged his shoulders, wound up and cold clocked me right on the tip of the chin.

For the next half hour I was completely punch drunk and my left eye stuck out like Marty Feldman.


So, in short, he's a gentle giant. So when we heard he was in a fight, it took us by surprise.

The principal explained that no only did he get in a fight, but that the boy he hit had to be picked up by his parents and taken to a dentist because his lip was busted up and his teeth were a little loose. The school also called to say that our son was beside himself that he had hurt the boy.

My wife asked if anyone figured out what had happened and the principal said that the boy who was hurt told her, " I kept picking on the boy and he kept telling me to stop, and I kept teasing him anyway....and then he just leveled me."

So, surprisingly, the school was pretty cool about the whole thing. They were calling us to tell us, but considered the matter closed..."boy-will-be-boys and all".

Of course, the school was the least of my concerns. My bigger worry was going to be calling the parent of the other kid. In my job I see my share of unreasonable people. And when you're kid is involved, people can get real unreasonable, real quick.

I called over to the house and the father answered. I introduced myself and expressed our concern for their son and explained that I had a talk with the boy. I readied myself for whatever was going to come and then was pleasantly surprised by the response. The father said, " I appreciate your concern. From what my son told me he had been teasing your boy on the playground. And after your son asked him to stop of few times, he clocked him. I've told my son a dozen times that if he keeps running around teasing people sooner or later someone is going to clock him. He's fine. The dentist said everything was ok. This will be a good lesson for him, don't worry about it."

I about fell out of my chair. There's still a little bit of old school left in the world.

And you know what, the dude is 100% right.

The incident brought me back my own youth. I remember going to the high school dances in 8th grade. Despite knowing all about being polite, a gentleman, and all the other stuff they try and teach you in Catholic schools, 8th grade boys sometimes can't get past the intense desire to pinch an ass now and again. And copping a feel is exactly what me and my cohorts were doing on Friday night in the crowded dance hall when a older, scarier, and much bigger guy came up to me with his girlfriend standing behind him and pointing.

" So which one of you dipshits grabbed my girlfriends ass ?", the large scary dude asked, looking right at me.

" IT WAS HIM !", she said pointing at me.

And it might as well have been. I was definitely one of the ass-grabbing offenders that night, but that didn't stop me from trying to plead my case,

" Well, you see..."

That's as far as I got before everything went white.

The next thing I saw when I came to was the ceiling. Then a second later the big dude's face appeared over top of me, "Maybe that will help you to remember to keep your fucking hands to yourself." And with that, cool as the other side of the pillow, the dude strolled away.

And you know what ? That dude was also 100% right.

It took getting slugged in the face, but at that moment I came to the realization that you should always treat people with respect. And perhaps more importantly, it taught me that in life there are consequences for your actions. Anytime I start to forget that lesson I have a little scar over my left eyebrow to remind me.

As for the young kid on the playground, I'm glad he's ok and I hope he takes something from the incident. For my son, I think he'd bought himself a couple of years before anyone decides to give him any shit.

I can't stop playing

Max Dirt Bike

my record is 5:36

manic thoughts

On the drive home last night I saw a guy brushing his teeth while driving. If that wasn't weird enough in an of itself...he was brushing his teeth by holding his toothbrush still and then shaking his head "no" as fast as he could. I almost turned the car around to follow him. A guy like that has to be interesting.

One of my toes ( I'm thinking the second toe on my right foot) must be weird because I keep getting a little hole in my socks. Always in a bad spot and always only on one sock. It's really freaking annoying. It just happened to me again this morning and was making me crazy so I put 9 staples in my sock to close the hole. I'd rather deal with scraping my toe with metal than have it poking through the hole.

I think my co worker is coming in my office and fucking with my stapler. There's a little metal piece that the staple slams into the turns the points of the staple either in or out ( I'm serious, check it out) and it seems like my metal plate is always turned out. And I'm pretty sure that I keep turning it in. I was going to confront him about it but thought that if I'm wrong he's going to think that I'm totally insane..you know confronting him in a paranoid way like that...so I decided on a different course of action. I offered to buy the office donuts and gave him a $10 bill and sent him out to go buy the donuts. While he was out I went into his office and fucked with both of his staplers. If it was him, he'll get it. If it wasn't, then he probably won't think anything of it.

My wife never throws anything away. I throw everything away...except books. I was tossing out a gigantic pile of all my kids shit the other day and I came across a pile of stupid little kid books that no one will ever read and I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. It just felt wrong. I finally tossed out a couple of books that had ripped pages or torn covered, but I kinda felt bad about it. Sort of like killing a fly after you spent a couple of minutes after politely trying to shoosh it out the door without having to kill it. Finally you get tired of the moral conflict and say fuck it and start smashing shit.

Coloring books are the exception. I have no problem throwing out coloring books...i actually find them to be somewhat offensive. To run with the anology, think cockroaches.

A lesson poker has taught me: If you want people to be predictable, then you have to be predictable. If you act erraticly, then they'll act erraticly. People are much easier to deal with when not acting erraticly.

Poker lesson 2: Chicks are a lot more aware of the power of their breasts than they ever let on.

OK, I better stop there. The rest of the stuff in my head is a lot more disturbing...better to keep that under wraps.

St. Patrick's Day Miracle

Saturday I woke at 7 am, still drunk.

I went into the bathroom and as I was pulling down my pants noticed I had a small hole in the waistband of my underpants. After finishing up, instead of pulling up my pants I just pulled up my underwear and looked in the mirror to see how big of a hole RickRubin put in my drawers when giving me a wedgie.

Sure enough, right under the waistband, there was the dime sized hole that I could feel. What I hadn't noticed, but was now clearly visible in the mirror was that below the dime sized was a small swatch of cloth...below the cloth was my pimply white ass. The entire ass of my underpants was completely blown out.

I was so hung-over, and still drunk, and just couldn't deal with it. I pulled up my pants, threw on some boots, and went out front to shovel...blown out ass and all.

I came in about an hour later much worse for the ware. Mrs. Flick came downstairs and had no mercy. She immediately started outlining the activities for the day. The itinerary was as follows:
* Drive down to Conestoga
* Pick up 4 year old daughter
* drive daughter over to Wal_Mart
* shop for birthday presents
* Take kid to 4 year old birthday party

I started to protest then thought better. I was a dead man either way, I might as well take my lumps.

Due to the weather and my condition, it took me an hour to get to Conestoga. Up, Down, Left, Right, Swish, Swish, Swish. I had the mini-van rocking and by the time I got there I was green as a leprechaun. I tossed the girl in the car and started my way out of the river hills...Up, Down, Left, Right, Swish, Swish, Swish.

When we got to Wal-Mart I was done. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it. I was sick, I was tired, my head was ready to explode. I couldn't see any way to shop, let alone go to a party.

Now I'm not a religious person....generally speaking, I don't believe in miracles or divine intervention...but the series of events that occurred next have lead me to reconsider my position. What occurred next made me think that St. Patrick himself stepped up and directed the holy spirit to have mercy on my soul. They say that it takes 3 miracles to make a saint and as far as I'm concerned, St. Pat made his bones with me.

#1 - As we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot I saw my daughters head slump forward and she fell asleep. I gingerly pulled into a spot so as not to disturb her. Her sleeping bag from her sleepover sat in the passengers seat next to me. I leaned over and placed my head on it and immediately went out. I think I only slept for about 15 minutes, but it was all the difference in the world. It gave me the boost I needed and I went in, bought some " My Little Pony" crap. Got some cards and gift bags and was on my way.

#2 - We got to the parking lot of the party. I put the gifts in the bag, stuffed it full of paper, and got the cards ready. The party was for twins, so I had to identify which present was for which kid. The problem was, when I left for the party my wife gave me explicit instructions which included the names of the girls who's party it was. Pretty much that was the ONLY thing I was supposed to remember. Now I was sitting outside of the party and had no idea.

I asked my daughter, " what are your friends names ?"...." they're twins daddy."..."yeah, but what are their names ?"..." um, I don't remember."...." how can you NOT remember...the girls in the class that are twins..come on"...." Daddy, you're being mean..you're going to make me cry"...." no, no, no.....don't cry...cause Daddy's going to start crying in about two seconds"

Just then the door of the party placed opened. Out walked a teenaged girl carrying a sandwich-board sign. She put the sign down, pulled out a big felt tipped marker, and wrote in giant letters that I could see from the parking lot. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAGARETTE AND ISABELLA. Bingo !

Miracle #3 - I was doing a little better but I was not out of the woods. I still was going to have to endure 1 and 1/2 hours of screaming kids and birthday folly. We went into the party and the mother of the girls walked up to me...." Thanks for bringing your daughter, see you in a while."

Huh ?! I thought I might still be drunk and getting delusional.

She must have seen the confusion on my face... "You don't need to hang out with all us women, if you'd like to go, just come back in about an hour. We're good here."

Stunned, I walked out front into the cold air figuring I'd just sleep in the van for a while. Then I looked up and saw it....I don't know how I had missed it earlier...I was standing across the street from the off track betting parlor.

Instead of doing the hokey-pokey and singing "happy birthday" out of tune.....I spent the next hour eating a big lunch, drinking a gallon of coke, and resting quietly in a dark corner. I also hit the 3 - 5 - 8 trifecta for a dollar boxed in the 4th race at Tampa and walked out of the place with more money than I walked in with.

Like I said... a Saint Patrick’s Day Miracle.

St. Patty's Weekend Top 10

10 - Number of drinks I had, minus shots, between 1 pm and 5 pm on Friday.

9 - o'clock, when I mercifully passed out in my living room.

8 - as in inches...as in the size of the hole in my underpants after I lost a wrestling match that turned into a uber-weggie. And yes I'm almost 40 years old and yes, I'm probably gay, get over it.

7 - Time I woke up and shoveled the driveway...still drunk.

6 - Number of guys that we started with at the bar at noon.

5 - The number of those guys that did NOT end up in the hospital at the end of the night. ** tip to self - stop encouraging the diabetic to do shots.

4 - Number of times I called my buddies wife to tell her, " Don't worry I'll make sure he gets home safely."....which of course it came out, " doanworryboutit...imakedahomesabbly", which I'm sure was terribly reassuring.

3 - Number of irish car bombs I drank.

2 - Number of pairs of fat pants that I broke down and bought. That's right, size 38 waist.

1 - Number of times I begged my wife to not make me go to a little kids birthday party on Saturday afternoon. Coincidently, also the number of times she said, " You're going...idiot"

Thank goodness it only comes once a year.

Golf Story

I grew up near a 9 hole municipal golf course that was built, in part, as a recreational facility for the steel workers just outside of Levittown.



The course is affectionately referred to as ‘ the goat path’ and it lives up to it’s billing. It floods on a regular basis, the tees are just the regular grass cut a little shorter, and the fairways and the rough are indistinguishable except that the fairways seem to actually have grass in among the weeds. Perhaps the most troubling thing about the course at this time this story is told, is that a mild winter had encouraged a flock of Canadian snow geese to stop their migration and as we moved well into the summer the bird just never left. Between the feathers and the turds, the course was turning into the bottom of a parakeet cage.



Despite its limitations, for years the course has been the source of fun and camaraderie for people of the community and a great learning ground for youth players many of whom have gone on to play golf in college, or as is the case with my brother, onto the professional ranks.



About 10 years or so ago, a bunch of the regular players decided that the club should have a championship. They agreed upon a format and set at date. At my parent’s, that date was circled with a big red market and written in the box was “ the Club Championship”.



My Mom had taken on a part time job at the course and for my father, this was heaven. You see my father is a golfing addict, and my Mom had then become his dealer. Free golf from dawn till disk and my Dad took advantage of every opportunity. Dad had become obsessed and if beating the goat path had turned my father into Lancelot then this tournament was to be his Holy Grail.



For day after day that summer he toiled out in the open sun honing his game. He learned the nuance of every green on the course, he had yardage and club selection down pat, and in case of emergency he become one of the few, if not only, people to learn how to hit out of the hard packed dirt that occupied the bunkers.



Finally the tournament day came. Actually the tournament was to be held over two weekends. In the first weekend the golfers were to play two rounds (18 holes), then the top 8 scores would qualify for the finals. The finals would be the following weekend and were set up in brackets like the NCAA pool everyone got a seeding according their scores and 1 played 8 and 2 played 7 etc etc in 9 hole match play competition ….Until the final two players would contest a final 18 hole round head-to-head to determine the champion.



After the first day, things went as planned. My dad won the medal play and was seeded in first place. The other eight were an assortment of local blue collar regulars as well as an unknown outsider, James Woo who was seeded 4th. My Dad cruised through both and second round matches….the man was on fire. He was tee to green perfect and all the putting practice had paid off. The first match was over by the 6th hole when he was 4 up with 3 to play. And the second contestant made it 7 before going down 3 and 2. In an act that was more hopeful optimist than hubris a small area was cleared above the TV stand that night, and Dad went to bed on Saturday with only Mr. Woo and 18 holes of match play between him and the Cup.

The final match was epic. The two men chased each other all over the goat path matching each other stroke for stroke. Dad went up one with a great putt on 3 only to have Woo get back even on the next hole with a birdie. Back and forth it went and the tention of the game grew as did the size of the gallery of locals following the match.

After 18 hard fought holes to two men found themselves tied.

It was getting to be the end of the day and the sun was just beginning to settle and the air beginning to cool. The two men took a brief break at the clubhouse for a soda and a trip to the bathroom and then they headed out. It was agreed that they would go back out to the first hole and then play a sudden death format. The first player to win a hole would be declared champion.

By this time, most of the other groups had finished thier play for the day and lined up along the first tee to watch the playoff. The crowd was obviously partisan. When Mr. Woo hit his drive there was barely a murmur. My Dad lined up, and his tee shot down the middle of the fairway was met with thundreous applause. It seemed that the " you-da-mans!" were going to be reserved for the hometown guy.

1st hole - both players in the fairway...both on the green...and two putt pars put them off to hole number two.

As had been the case all day long, the tee shots on the 20th hole had both players within yards of each other, both in the fairway....neither conceeding a thing to their opponent. However, the second shot finally saw the pressure of the situation cause a small crack in the armor. Mr. Woo hit a shot that landed short, checked up and trickled onto the very edge of the green. It was on the dance floor but as far away from the hole as you could be. Instead of taking advantage of the mistep, Dad had a lapse of concentration and pulled the ball leaving it 30 yards right of the green.

The gallery formed around my father's ball with a reverent silence. Men who hadn't prayed in years quietly chanted in their heads..." please God, the trophy has to stay here at the club. I promise that I'll cut back on the drinkin' and blaspheming...just don't let the Chinaman take our Cup away."

Oblivious to the crowd, the world around him, and even to the geese running around freaked out by all comotion, my father stepped over his ball with the focused concentation of a spinal surgeon. He laid the face of his loft wedge open and made a big slow arching backswing. At the very top of the swing it seemed as if the whole world paused for the briefest of moments along with his club and then TWWWAACCCCKKKKKKK ...he came down across the ball sending it in a high arching orbit into the pinkish dusk sky and onto the green....... 2 inches from the hole.

The crowd went nuts.

Mr. Woo conceeded the putt and was going to need to make the hole in two putts in order to force another playoff hole. My dad went from danger to the driver seat in one miraculous shot. He trotted up to the green retrieved his ball and ran back to the group with a series of high fives and atta-boys as Mr. Woo stepped walked to his ball.

Mr. Woo was rattled. He grimaced and stepped over his putt nervously knowing that he had to get it close. The fluid putting style that he had shown all day was gone he took a stabbing jab at the ball that was too hard and obviously too wide and the ball careened off the putter at a queer angle. A sea of poorly hidden smiles broke out across the gallery as they tracked the ball now flying across the green.

Then the unthinkable happened.

As was customarily necessary at the goat-path, Mr. Woo had cleared a path of the goose dropping and feathers from his putting path. The gave him a clean line at the hole. His ball, however, was no longer heading toward the hole and therefore no longer on that cleared path.

The ball, which was on a path to end up a long 10 feet left and another 10 feet past its mark suddenly hit the biggest, fattest goose turd on the course. On making contact with the bird poo the ball hopped a foot in the air. The ball checked up, slowing down considerably, and ( skid mark and all) jutted back to the right. You could hear the collective gasp as the ball returned to the putting surface. It rolled another 4 feet, hesitated, and then disappeared into the hole for ( appropriately enough) a birdie...and the win.


Respectfully, if quietly, Mr. Woo was presented with his trophy at the clubhouse in a small ceremony. He loaded his stuff into his Honda and drove off into the evening with the Champions Cup and a satisfied smile. My Dad never let the situation break his spirit and I've never heard him complain about his bad fortune...that's not his style. He congratulated his opponent, moved on, and he's continued to improve his game shotting in the low 80's and into the 70's on a regular basis. But despite his stoic extrior, I sense there's exists a small spot on his heart, as spot just about the same size as the small area still cleared on the mantle above the TV stand.

why I drink

Why do I drink ? You see it's simple.

I'll give you Saturday night for an example.

I started a poker league. Its a year long series and Saturday was the first event for the year. I invited a bunch of players, had a couple of people coming from out of town, and was excited to get the thing started.

A couple of weeks after setting the whole thing up, two good friends decide to hold suprise birthday parties for their spouses at the same time, on the same night. Obviously bad timing for me. So I'm between a rock and a hard place and a week out I'm already stressed about how to try to fit in all in. So after some quick math, I work it out and tell the host that I can get to the first party and I'm good until 7:30...then I can get home in time for everyone to arrive at my place.

I got to the party early. Like 20 minutes early, which considering who I'm married to is understated. That's like saying that Doogie Houser graduated high school early. Unfortunately we sat at the bar for 25 minutes until everyone got there.

Now I was trying to enjoy myself and be polite but the clock was running and I realized that by the time that we got seated and got menus and people showed up, that I was going to have to leave just as everyone was getting settled in... and I was going to look like a douchebag. So by showing up, I'm a bigger asshole than if I didn't come.

I should note that I'm a socially manic person. Severely. Either I'm entirely comfortable ( rare and often facilitated by copious ammts of alcohol) or I'm disturbingly uncomfortable and paranoid, especially in groups. Let me just say that I wasn't drinking and you can derive your own conclussions as to my state of mind.

I tried to stay focused and make conversation where appropriate and then my phone started to ring off the hook. People were calling to cancel, calling to ask if they could come, or asking directions to my house. I self-consiously excused myself, handled the calls, finally turned off my phone. Then went to the bathroom, took a leak, washed my face and collected myself. "OK", I thought to myself " stop getting worked up, everything is fine...just go back out there, relax, enjoy myself, make some conversation and when you have to leave, politely excuse yourself and do what you have to do. No one will even notice that I'm there or that I've left"

Somewhat calmed I started back to the table.

Then I could see HIM. Wearing, of all things, a bright orange shirt, like the color of a DOT workman or a hunter. I could see him from the other side of the restaurant. And he was seated in the chair right next to me. It was the doucheblogcyclist , my arch-nemisis.

This guy has a PHd in fucking with people. He has a annoying tic. I don't mean he has a tic that I find annoying. I mean his tic is being annoying. He has super powers that allow him to find whatever thing makes you the most uncomfortable...then he focuses in on it, and keeps pushing that button until you crack.

And in this situation I was wearing I giant " fuck with me" button right in the center of my forehead.

I took a deep breath....this was going to be fine...I'm overreacting...we're all adults now...I'm sure he's going to be polite. As inconspiculously as possible I slid back into my seat and offered a polite hello.

" HEY FLICK ! I DON'T KNOW WHAT PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT, YOU'RE NOT THAT FAT !!!"

Everyone stopped their conversation, turned to see what all the commotion was, stare at the two of us, and I suppose, assess just how fat I've gotten.

So much for people not knowing that I was there.

Of course my natural instinct was to find a snow shovel or a broom handle and start swinging. But out of respect for the birthday girl and out of a desire to be as invisible as possbile I just smiled, started eating a roll and didn't say shit for about 15 minutes.

After a while I started feeling awkward for not saying anything, so I tried to make idle conversation with the side of the table away from my tormentor. I mentioned that a mutual aquaintence had just won a poker tornament for $115,000. That prompted a joking comment about when I might win a tourament and make some money. As I began to explain that I play for pennies and for fun, a voiced bellowed from behind me..

" FLICK IS GOING TO WIN THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER ...HE'S ALMOST A SEMI-PROFESSIONAL !!!! HARDEE HAR HAR HAR !!!"

That was all I could take. I gathered up my shit, shaking with with self-conscious embarassment trumped only by rage, and got up to leave.

I looked over to Mrs. Flick who, for the first time all week was sitting there with a beer and a smile on her face. Just because I was on the verge of committing a felony, there was no reason for her to leave. I quietly told her, " I'm going, you should stay". Of course, she said, " No, I'll go with you." and her friends said, " no, stay stay" and then it all started up.

Instead of slinking off into the shadows, I was standing in the middle of the room engaged in 5 differnt conversations, " you should stay", "how will I get home ?"..." I'll get you"..." Where's he going ?"..." I think he's going to play poker"..." Do you think he has a gambling problem"..." You don't want you to come back and get me"..." I don't mind"..." gambling problem ? I hear he's a semi-professional hardee har har"

I finally said, " call me when you want to come home and I ran out of there. I went directly to the pizza shop across the street, ordered a large draft and chugged it.

You'd think the story would end here. You problably wish it would. Me too.

I got to my house and we started playing. Then my phone rang...the caller ID read 'doucheblogcyclist". In the middle of the hand I picked it up....no one there. Two minutes later it rang again...now the guys at the game started giving me shit, " dude, what's with the phone calls are you playing poker or what". Doucheblog again. Hang-up again.

Now I excused myself and called him, " WHAT ?"

" Heh heh heh. I didn't call you."

Two minutes later phone rings again. Now I'm pissed, " WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ?"

It was Mrs. Flick. Oops.

" I'm sorry to bother you" she said, " I'll take a cab." then I could hear everyone in the background saying " no, we'll drive you...he's not coming to get you ?", meanwhile, I hadn't said shit.

" NO, I'm coming to get you like I said I would, it's no problem I'll be there in a minute"

I excused myself from the tournament, costing myself some chips but no big deal, and set off to fetch my wife.

When I got to the restaurant it was pouring rain. The parking lot was not only full, but all the arrogant assholes who were too good that have to park and walk in the rain had parked in the fire lane, and all the other paved areas anywhere near the front doors. I was going to have to park a quarter mile away. " fuck this" I thought, " She's right there waiting for me."

I double parked in the middle of the parking lot and turned the flashers on and ran to atrium. No Mrs. Flick. I went inside to the sitting area. No Mrs. Flick. I walked trought the packed bar...nada. Finally I ran upstairs to where to party was and she was sitting there at the table drinking a beer. " Umm, hun we gotta go."

" Oh HI. Thanks for getting me. Let me finish my beer and say goodbye."...she was killing me. I was pretty sure that by this time I was either getting towed or someone I had parked in was tearing the wiper blades off my windshield.

" I am double parked, I have to go outside now. We have to leave", I started down the stairs and she soon followed.

So after all of that. After going when I really didn't have time to go, after doing my best to be polite while someone is riding my ass, after trying to be a decent guy and have my wife stay and enjoy herself, and after leaving my game to drive back and pick her up, I get this IM this morning....

GM: douchblog told us that you were rude at the party and inconsiderate to your wife on Saturday night.

That's what I got.

So there. That's why I drink. I drink to stay alive.

In fact, I think I'm going to have to stay a little bit alive a lunch this afternoon....and then stay a whole bunch of alive when I get home tonight.

The Grand Marnier Story

I took Mrs. Flick to Philadelphia last weekend and we treated ourselves to a couple of children-free days for food drink and merriment.

We ate at the finest steak restaurant in all of Philadelphia on Saturday night...Smith and Wollensky. It was, as it always is, supurb. But when I got the bill I was shocked to see that my Manhattan was $11, her Bud Light draft beer was $7.50, and adding some lobster tail to my steak left our dinner check at the same price as our car payment.

Getting away occurs once in a blue moon, so I'm not going to balk at a couple of bucks for a fun night out, but the situation reminded me of an old story that I don't think I've told here...the story of the Grand Marnier.

My buddy Charlie is one of the last Old School Gentlemen. And by Old School, I don't mean RUN-DMC...I mean in the all-class Cary Grant kinda way.

So when it was time to celebrate his mothers 65th birthday Charlie pulled out all the stops and made arrangements for private dining at Le Bec-Fin , one of more posh restaurants in the city.

Charlie saved up all his pennies for the dinner and they pulled out all the stops...H'Oderves, fine wine, a five course meal, private dining area, top shelf everything. Charlie's father had died a couple of years earlier and Charlie really want this to be a special day for his Mother. This was going to clean him out financially for a little while, but the smile on his mothers face made it all worth while.

At the end of the evening, the waiter came to the table and asked if anyone wanted a
degestif . Charlies wife declined as did his mother who was nursing her coffee. The idea of an after dinner drink appealed to Charlie and he requested a menu.

Charlie opened the drink menu and at the top of page one it read Cuvée Speciale Cent Cinquantenaire...which roughly translates to Susquecentennial Special. That refers to a special batch of Grand Marier made to commemorate the 150th anniversary of Alexandre Marnier-Lapostolle's first distilling the liquor. To provide you with some perspective, the drink has been marketed under the slogan, "Hard to find, impossible to pronounce, and prohibitively expensive."

This being the finest meal Charlie had ever eaten, knowing that he might not have another opportunity, and wanting to cap off a perfect evening, Charlie overlooked the $65 A GLASS price. Sure he'd have to work overtime or a couple of weekends, but when you're in this far...you're in all the way...he ordered the drink.

Well the waiter lit up, " What and excellent choice sir ! As you may know the Speciale was awarded a Gold Medal at the Salon des Arts Ménager. It is made with 50-year-old cognacs sealed within hand-finished frosted glass bottles. Its has a deep flavor with just a hint of organge. I'm sure that you will find it excellent." and with a big smile turn and started to walk away.

Just then Charlies mother, who had been sitting there attentively enjoying the floor show piped up. " Ummmm, that does sound yummy. I'll have one of those too."

Charlie didn't do a double take, he did a tripple take. Knowing full well the situation, the waiter paused and looked to Charlie for direction. Charlie struggled for an out " Ah, Mom, don't you think you'd like something a bit more tame than a cognac ? It's really strong...more like a whiskey. How about if I have him bring you a Sambuka or how about a nice Brandy ?"

She thought for a second, " No, that orangey thing sounded good. I'll have one of those too."

Defeated, Charlie glanced to the waiter and gave him the nod, " Ok, we'll have two."

Moments later the waiter brought the drinks out. Charlie swirreled the liquor in his glass to aerate and took a sniff. He took a small sip and let a drop sit on his tongue filling his mouth with the flavor. As he went to place his still full glass on the table to settle he saw some movement to his left. He turn to the side just in time to see his mother grab the glass off the waiters tray, kick her head back, and toss the 'shot' down in one gulp.

" Ahhhhhhhhh," she smacked her lips and broke out in a big smile, " that was pretty good."

Charlie could only sit and pray that she didn't ask for another.

Ernie is funny

Ernie's House of Whoop Ass

Sound Advice

nice to meet you

There was a guy who was working the local lecture circuit as a moderator with whom I got pretty friendly. I had been attending a number of his training seminars and after awhile we got to know each other on a first name basis. He was a charasmatic sort of guy. I believe had been a preacher at one time but was now using the skills that he learned at the pulpit for inspiring people to do good work in government.

I should note to those of you who don't know me personally...that I am not a Christian. My religious proclivity falls somewhere between 'I'm not sure' and 'I really try not to think about it'...both of which are unpopular positions here in the Bible Belt of the North.

Anyway, he always had these little icebreakers where attendees had to interact with other attendees. It was a bit of a pain in the ass, but in the end it was always effective. If the class muddled through whatever he had set up, the group would inevitably participate more and be more attentive.

So one class he opened by saying, " We are going to play a little game. You're going to get a partner. Then you are going to say something to your partner that you think you both have in common. If you both have that item in common then your partner is going to shake your hand and say ' nice to meet you'. I'll give you an example....Flick, can you come up here and help demostrate ?"

With that I hopped up to the front of the room to join him.

He continued, " OK, let's domonstrate.....I'm wearing a blue shirt !"

Since we were both wearing a blue shirt I extended my hand in an exaggerated way for effect and game him the old, " NICE TO MEET YOU !" with a toothy grin.

" Nice to meet you too !" said our speaker and then he turned to the crowd and said, " OK everyone pair up and give it a try. Flick...since your already up here, why don't you be my partner."

He and I moved to the side and grabbed a couple of chairs. He gestured that I should go first so I thought for a second and said, " HI ! I'm going to be stuck here for the next 2 1/2 hours !"

" Hahahha", our speaker chuckled, " I can only hope that you don't find me that boring....but NICE TO MEET YOU !" and he extended his hand with a hearty shake.

Now it was his turn, " I've accepted Jesus as my personal savior"

Yes, you read it right.

" Pardon me ?"

He tried again, this time with a little more enthusiasm, " I've accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior" and out went his hand with a big smile.

TH-TH-THAT !?!?!? THAT is what you're opening with ?"

I'm not sure of the exact meaning of the word incredulous, but if it includes 'totally fucking shocked' as part of it, then that's what I was.

The smile started to droop a bit, " ahhh, no good ?"

I winced in a bit of pain and shook my head like a rookie pitcher nervously shaking off the curve ball from a veteran catcher.

What followed was about the longest three seconds of dead air I've ever endured.

The smile was gone this time. His expression was that of a guy trying to solve a math problem...like something that involved two trains leaving two cities at different times. Then, suddenly he must have come to his answer. His eye lit up, shoved out his hand and stammered, " I...I...I'm wearing a blue shirt !"

I greatfully grabbed his hand which had gown just about as damp as mine

"Nice to meet you...", I offered almost appologetically, "...nice to meet you!"

cluck...that's what I'm talkin' bout !

It's official. Rabbits are pussies and chickens rule.

Still Funny

I had this on the old blog and its still funny now.

There are about a dozen funny quotes from this...what's your favorite ?

be careful what you wish for

Regular readers may recall my quest to go to the bathroom ( #2 of course) without having another living creature, be it child, dog, or wife, walk in on me. I remember the last time it happened foldly...it was the spring of 2004...I had just gotten a new National Grographic and had eaten calamari and penne pasta the night before....but I digress.

I came home today to a full house and ran upstairs for my evening constitution. I settled in, patiently did my business, and surprisingly noted that I had not been interrrupted.

The smirk on my face last just seconds as I reached over to toilet paper roll and found it empty.

OK, no problem, there had to be some in under the sink right ? I suffered through the indignity of ever so gngerly waddling around knock-kneed, pants around my ankles and hind quarters high in the air, as I rooted around under the sink.....NOTHING.

Frantic, I started looking around for anything else useful...no napkins, no paper towels, no baby wipes. There WERE a slew of poker magazines...however I said I was frantic...I didn't say I was hopeless.

So the most reasonable plan of action was to just wait it out. I mean it was amazing that someone or something hadn't run in to that point, it had to be only a matter of time before someone came to my rescue.

So I picked up a magazine and I read an article and waited....and waited...and waited. I stomped on the floop a couple of times...nothing. I could hear them down there...I wasn't alone. " Hellooooooooo ?!" Nothing.

Finally.....defeated....I just gave in. I decide to go to another location and all that entails ( I'm assuming most of you know what I mean). I stood , hiked up my pants, and made my way to the kids bathroom on the other side of the house.

I'm starting to think that they're all messing with me on purpose, I really am.