1) "Nancy! The real reason this marriage is doomed to fail is because you're a Ms. Slutty McSlutterton!" Edgar exclaimed pugnaciously.
2) The 4th of July came every year for the Smith family and each year they celebrated it. Every year without fail the 4th came right after the 3rd, but right before the 5th, like clockwork. After several years Dad Smith grew suspicious. Maybe, he thought, it wasn't like clockwork. Maybe it was clockwork. Then his head exploded.
3) Two weeks of worrying had finally come to an end when Steve's dermatologist gave him the news that the mole on his lower back was not, in fact, cancerous. His worries only doubled however when the doctor informed him that the enormous bumps on his areolas were cancerous tumors and not, in fact, "super nips," as Steve affectionately called them.
4) Once again, just like last year, Wyatt got stuck stuck riding Apple, the miniature pony, for the annual cattle drive when they pushed the herd to market. And although the mini pony had saved Wyatt's life on more than one occasion, there were a lot of reasons Wyatt hated riding Apple. The fact that Wyatt was six feet tall and 220 pounds was definitely number one. Apple's constant bouncing and Wyatt's recent vasectomy didn't help much either.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
My Friends Wife
I have this friend. This friend is definitely not me. It's this other guy who is my age and married with four children, but not me. I'll call him Gergitch. While having lunch together one day Gergitch asked me what bugs me about my wife. I quickly responded that nothing bugs me about my wife. She's an angel and I'm lucky to have her. He laughed, audibly, and said, "Come on. I've met Kathry..." and before he could finish her sweet name I smacked him so hard his sandwich flew out of his mouth. Mind you, it wasn't a close fisted smack. I would never discipline a good friend with a close fisted smack.
At that, Gergitch went on to explain that he has this one issue with his wife that has plagued his marriage since day one. "What is it?" I asked out loud to Gergitch, who is not me. "Laundry" he replied.
Side Note: During the second year of our marriage my wife and I went to Boston with a couple we had become close friends with. While cruising around in our rental car the female half of our friends thought it would be fun to play the game, "What do you guys fight about?" This is how it's played. Someone asks me and my wife what we fight about, and then for the next two days we fight about it while driving around Boston. Needless to say, it's great fun. (It should be noted that those friends have never invited us on another outing that lasted longer than dinner.) I remember the trip well and I remember that we fought for literally two days. But for the life of me I have no idea what we fought about (although I'm sure it was something serious like the growing economic divide between America's rich and poor, or the underlying historical causes of the turmoil in the Middle East, or her mom).
So when Gergitch told me that laundry was the bane of his marriage I literally LOL. I then LMAO. Finally, I lost control, and LMFAO. He told me that piles of laundry build up around the house and about once a fortnight when he can't take it anymore he explodes and it turns into a grudge match that leaves a heavy cloud over the whole house. He said he felt he bore the lions share of total responsibility and was a victim of an unfair division of labor. I explained that that last sentence was redundant and to stop wasting my time with meaningless repetition.
"Do you love her?" I asked.
"Yes," he assured me.
"Let's say, for arguments sake, that you knew in advance that she would never do laundry again. Knowing this ahead of time, would you still want to be married to her?"
"Of course," he assured me again.
"Then stop intentionally damaging your relationship to prove a point over such a trivial issue. You're shooting yourself in the foot to prove your gun is loaded. I'm with you. She should do the laundry willingly and quickly, but she's your wife, and your issue is laundry. Grow up you dumb bastard."
Then I slapped the sandwich out of his mouth again, for good measure.
As my words and the sting of a second smack sunk in I sat back and took a sip of my drink to keep myself from smiling as I secretly reveled in the simple poetry of my wise counsel. I also did Gergitch the courtesy of pointing out that he was wrought with frailty and that his wife was forced to step over his metaphorical piles on a regular basis, but was not the type to point them out. He considered this soberly, and that ended our lunch.
I caught up with Gergitch some days later and he confided that he had gone home after our conversation full of remorse and apologized to his wife for his critical attitude and vowed to mention her piles less and to help with them more. I smiled and congratulated him on his growth, and then we embraced in a very heterosexual way.
So, what do you guys fight about?
At that, Gergitch went on to explain that he has this one issue with his wife that has plagued his marriage since day one. "What is it?" I asked out loud to Gergitch, who is not me. "Laundry" he replied.
Side Note: During the second year of our marriage my wife and I went to Boston with a couple we had become close friends with. While cruising around in our rental car the female half of our friends thought it would be fun to play the game, "What do you guys fight about?" This is how it's played. Someone asks me and my wife what we fight about, and then for the next two days we fight about it while driving around Boston. Needless to say, it's great fun. (It should be noted that those friends have never invited us on another outing that lasted longer than dinner.) I remember the trip well and I remember that we fought for literally two days. But for the life of me I have no idea what we fought about (although I'm sure it was something serious like the growing economic divide between America's rich and poor, or the underlying historical causes of the turmoil in the Middle East, or her mom).
So when Gergitch told me that laundry was the bane of his marriage I literally LOL. I then LMAO. Finally, I lost control, and LMFAO. He told me that piles of laundry build up around the house and about once a fortnight when he can't take it anymore he explodes and it turns into a grudge match that leaves a heavy cloud over the whole house. He said he felt he bore the lions share of total responsibility and was a victim of an unfair division of labor. I explained that that last sentence was redundant and to stop wasting my time with meaningless repetition.
"Do you love her?" I asked.
"Yes," he assured me.
"Let's say, for arguments sake, that you knew in advance that she would never do laundry again. Knowing this ahead of time, would you still want to be married to her?"
"Of course," he assured me again.
"Then stop intentionally damaging your relationship to prove a point over such a trivial issue. You're shooting yourself in the foot to prove your gun is loaded. I'm with you. She should do the laundry willingly and quickly, but she's your wife, and your issue is laundry. Grow up you dumb bastard."
Then I slapped the sandwich out of his mouth again, for good measure.
As my words and the sting of a second smack sunk in I sat back and took a sip of my drink to keep myself from smiling as I secretly reveled in the simple poetry of my wise counsel. I also did Gergitch the courtesy of pointing out that he was wrought with frailty and that his wife was forced to step over his metaphorical piles on a regular basis, but was not the type to point them out. He considered this soberly, and that ended our lunch.
I caught up with Gergitch some days later and he confided that he had gone home after our conversation full of remorse and apologized to his wife for his critical attitude and vowed to mention her piles less and to help with them more. I smiled and congratulated him on his growth, and then we embraced in a very heterosexual way.
So, what do you guys fight about?
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Death On The Brain
If I had to guess, I would say that I have imagined
my own death more times than the average person. Not as much as say, Edgar Allan
Poe, or other such Goths, but still, a lot, especially for the happy,
well adjusted person I like to think I am. Where the preoccupation comes from,
I have no idea, but for as long as I can remember, even back to my early
childhood, it is not uncommon for me to space out during whatever I am doing
and imagine some form of my own unpleasant demise.
Back before car seats were a mandatory expense to parents, my mom would let me curl up like a cat on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Lying there, surprisingly comfortable in the small space, I would imagine head-on collisions that would push the dashboard to the seat leaving me trapped, assuming I survived the initial impact, like a sardine in a can, until I finally suffocated.
We got a trampoline in my youth and I imagined breaking my neck a variety of ways. The most common involved me doing a back flip, sticking my head between the springs as my body continued backward over the bar as my neck finally succumbed to the pressure and would snap.
While mountain biking I’d imagine wrecks that would leave me broken, bloodied, and paralyzed. But in my mind the wreck never killed me. Death came later as I tried to pull myself to safety; usually being eaten by wolves or a bear. (After I watched the movie, Deliverance, the wild animals were substituted by back-woods hillbillies that would eat me only after robbing me of my virtue.)
No matter what the scenario, it’s usually long and detailed. And since I’ve never sat down with a psychologist and explained the fixation I’ve never learned if it’s either abnormal or unhealthy. I’ve just always assumed that since I’m a functioning member of society and I have no desire to harm myself that this violent imagery doesn’t put me in any high-risk psychological categories. Maybe it’s an asset. Maybe when I do finally meet my end I’ll be able to say, while drifting away from my lifeless body, “I saw that coming from a mile away.” Unless, of course, I die of old age. That would totally come out of left field.
Just out of curiosity, have you ever thought about it? If so, how to you meet your end?
Back before car seats were a mandatory expense to parents, my mom would let me curl up like a cat on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Lying there, surprisingly comfortable in the small space, I would imagine head-on collisions that would push the dashboard to the seat leaving me trapped, assuming I survived the initial impact, like a sardine in a can, until I finally suffocated.
We got a trampoline in my youth and I imagined breaking my neck a variety of ways. The most common involved me doing a back flip, sticking my head between the springs as my body continued backward over the bar as my neck finally succumbed to the pressure and would snap.
While mountain biking I’d imagine wrecks that would leave me broken, bloodied, and paralyzed. But in my mind the wreck never killed me. Death came later as I tried to pull myself to safety; usually being eaten by wolves or a bear. (After I watched the movie, Deliverance, the wild animals were substituted by back-woods hillbillies that would eat me only after robbing me of my virtue.)
No matter what the scenario, it’s usually long and detailed. And since I’ve never sat down with a psychologist and explained the fixation I’ve never learned if it’s either abnormal or unhealthy. I’ve just always assumed that since I’m a functioning member of society and I have no desire to harm myself that this violent imagery doesn’t put me in any high-risk psychological categories. Maybe it’s an asset. Maybe when I do finally meet my end I’ll be able to say, while drifting away from my lifeless body, “I saw that coming from a mile away.” Unless, of course, I die of old age. That would totally come out of left field.
Just out of curiosity, have you ever thought about it? If so, how to you meet your end?
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Cats and Credit
The number of cats owned in relation to credit score for single females living in Kentucky.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Question 5
SCENARIO: You and your spouse have three children. Their ages are five, three, and the youngest, a boy, is 6 months. One day, just as your spouse is leaving on a three day business trip, your 6 month old son comes down with a terrible flu. His temperature rises to a alarming 106 degrees. Your doctor, who is a genius in the art of pediatrics, tells you there are only two ways you can save your son.
Cure 1) You must put your baby in a crib where you must leave him alone for the entire three days your spouse is gone and allow him to struggle through the flu on his own and under no circumstances enter the room. You may not enter to feed him and all his nourishment will be attained through the use of a gerbil type feeder attached to the side of his crib which he will struggle with, but manage to use. You will not need to change his diaper as he will produce no waste. He will scream for the entire 3 days which will not only wreck every nerve you have but leave you feeling a depth of guilt that few parents know. The screaming will also have a contagious effect on your other two children and they will become increasingly distressed, anxious, and confused by your seemingly calloused alienation of their suffering younger sibling. At the end of the 3 days the illness will finally subside and just before your spouse arrives home your baby will drift peacefully off to sleep. Though physically healthy this experience will leave all three of your children with minor subconscious trust issues.
OR
Cure 2) On the first night home from the hospital you must go to bed with your baby and allow him to fall asleep on your chest and remain there the entire night while you pat him on the back and sing to him softly. The next morning, after a long sleepless night, your son will be fully recovered. However, this experience will have left him conditioned more deeply and fully than even Pavlov's Dogs. The conditioning will go well beyond the subconscious. It will cause a lasting change in his very physiology leaving him conditioned to the point that for the next 21 years, anytime he catches an illness of any kind the only way he can recover, and rid himself of it, is to sleep the entire night on top of you. When he gets chicken pox as a first grader, he must sleep on you. When he gets mono from kissing the wrong girl at a middle school dance, he must sleep on you. Cold, flu, sinus infection, whooping cough, strep throat, pink eye, hemorrhoid, syphilis, etc. The only road to recovery is a night of sleeping on your torso. When, at the age of 21, he has his wisdom teeth out, he must lay his head on your soft bosom, while you pat his back and softly sing the entire night. If he cannot sleep on you, he cannot recover... ever.
QUESTION: Which option do you choose and why?
Cure 1) You must put your baby in a crib where you must leave him alone for the entire three days your spouse is gone and allow him to struggle through the flu on his own and under no circumstances enter the room. You may not enter to feed him and all his nourishment will be attained through the use of a gerbil type feeder attached to the side of his crib which he will struggle with, but manage to use. You will not need to change his diaper as he will produce no waste. He will scream for the entire 3 days which will not only wreck every nerve you have but leave you feeling a depth of guilt that few parents know. The screaming will also have a contagious effect on your other two children and they will become increasingly distressed, anxious, and confused by your seemingly calloused alienation of their suffering younger sibling. At the end of the 3 days the illness will finally subside and just before your spouse arrives home your baby will drift peacefully off to sleep. Though physically healthy this experience will leave all three of your children with minor subconscious trust issues.
OR
Cure 2) On the first night home from the hospital you must go to bed with your baby and allow him to fall asleep on your chest and remain there the entire night while you pat him on the back and sing to him softly. The next morning, after a long sleepless night, your son will be fully recovered. However, this experience will have left him conditioned more deeply and fully than even Pavlov's Dogs. The conditioning will go well beyond the subconscious. It will cause a lasting change in his very physiology leaving him conditioned to the point that for the next 21 years, anytime he catches an illness of any kind the only way he can recover, and rid himself of it, is to sleep the entire night on top of you. When he gets chicken pox as a first grader, he must sleep on you. When he gets mono from kissing the wrong girl at a middle school dance, he must sleep on you. Cold, flu, sinus infection, whooping cough, strep throat, pink eye, hemorrhoid, syphilis, etc. The only road to recovery is a night of sleeping on your torso. When, at the age of 21, he has his wisdom teeth out, he must lay his head on your soft bosom, while you pat his back and softly sing the entire night. If he cannot sleep on you, he cannot recover... ever.
QUESTION: Which option do you choose and why?
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
2012 in Retrospect
"Aaaahhh, 2012."
For the last few days I've enjoyed saying that with a breath of nostalgia while reclining, kicking up my feet, and lacing my fingers behind my head.
"What a year."
Sometimes I say that too.
Other exclamations I've been heard uttering whilst reminiscing about 2012 include; "Deeee-amn!" "We gotta do that sh#@ again." and "Sheeeeesh." This last one will be accompanied with a slight head shake and a wry smile.
That's how good my year went. In fact, I improved more in 2012 than I did in the last 10 years combined. This is the first time I neared the end of the year and found I had no more sins to repent of, and no more blessing to ask for. So when I prayed, me and God just talked about the weather, the lack of leadership within the GOP, or other mysteries of the universe.
So, what made my year so good, you ask? Well, at the beginning of 2012 I set some pretty lofty goals for myself, and having accomplished all of them, I had what some call a 100% year. I reached my maximum capacity, and realized my full potential.
(A sample of some of my minor accomplishments)
After completing the cannon of American and British Classics, I translated them to Tolkien's Elvish.
I completed P90X, Y, and Z. Then sold my exercise video to Tony Horton.
I finally published the book I'd been working on under the pseudonym E.L. James, then let my heavy set widow neighbor do the press tour for me.
I did pull-ups... all day.
I eradicated offensive, politically incorrect language like "crap" and "retard" and "Mexican" from my vocabulary.
I learned tocrap defecate so efficiently that I no longer need to wipe, or wash afterwards.
When my wife got tired of being pregnant, I gestated our 4th baby for the last five months.
Please understand, this is not an attempt to beat my own drum for glories sake. But rather to illustrate a point. I've been pondering ways I could possibly improve on 2012. Is it possible? The simple conclusion I've come to is, no. It's not. For that reason I've decided to forgo goals and resolutions this year. Our New Year traditions may demand my continued growth, but my family, peers and the world around me demand that I slow the Hell down. "Stop and smell the roses," they all say to me. "Life's too short." Or, "You're going to have a stroke and and be one of those people it's awkward to talk to because they have to speak so slow and deliberately." Now, I'm not convinced that all the nay-sayers are right, but out of love for my friends, family and those within my circle of influence I've decided to concede.
So, in conclusion, this is the year I let myself go. Gain a little weight. Let the eyebrows grow back together. Spend more time with my TV and less time with my kids. This is the year The UnMighty puts on the natural man. I'm already one week into the new me, and I have to say, it feels good. Like an old pair of sweats. In fact, I've decided to backslide carelessly just to be fair to 2014. If my plan works out well, I'll make it a tradition; Even years, excel. Odd years, regress.
So bring it on 2013! Let's get wasted!
For the last few days I've enjoyed saying that with a breath of nostalgia while reclining, kicking up my feet, and lacing my fingers behind my head.
"What a year."
Sometimes I say that too.
Other exclamations I've been heard uttering whilst reminiscing about 2012 include; "Deeee-amn!" "We gotta do that sh#@ again." and "Sheeeeesh." This last one will be accompanied with a slight head shake and a wry smile.
That's how good my year went. In fact, I improved more in 2012 than I did in the last 10 years combined. This is the first time I neared the end of the year and found I had no more sins to repent of, and no more blessing to ask for. So when I prayed, me and God just talked about the weather, the lack of leadership within the GOP, or other mysteries of the universe.
So, what made my year so good, you ask? Well, at the beginning of 2012 I set some pretty lofty goals for myself, and having accomplished all of them, I had what some call a 100% year. I reached my maximum capacity, and realized my full potential.
(A sample of some of my minor accomplishments)
After completing the cannon of American and British Classics, I translated them to Tolkien's Elvish.
I completed P90X, Y, and Z. Then sold my exercise video to Tony Horton.
I finally published the book I'd been working on under the pseudonym E.L. James, then let my heavy set widow neighbor do the press tour for me.
I did pull-ups... all day.
I eradicated offensive, politically incorrect language like "crap" and "retard" and "Mexican" from my vocabulary.
I learned to
When my wife got tired of being pregnant, I gestated our 4th baby for the last five months.
Please understand, this is not an attempt to beat my own drum for glories sake. But rather to illustrate a point. I've been pondering ways I could possibly improve on 2012. Is it possible? The simple conclusion I've come to is, no. It's not. For that reason I've decided to forgo goals and resolutions this year. Our New Year traditions may demand my continued growth, but my family, peers and the world around me demand that I slow the Hell down. "Stop and smell the roses," they all say to me. "Life's too short." Or, "You're going to have a stroke and and be one of those people it's awkward to talk to because they have to speak so slow and deliberately." Now, I'm not convinced that all the nay-sayers are right, but out of love for my friends, family and those within my circle of influence I've decided to concede.
So, in conclusion, this is the year I let myself go. Gain a little weight. Let the eyebrows grow back together. Spend more time with my TV and less time with my kids. This is the year The UnMighty puts on the natural man. I'm already one week into the new me, and I have to say, it feels good. Like an old pair of sweats. In fact, I've decided to backslide carelessly just to be fair to 2014. If my plan works out well, I'll make it a tradition; Even years, excel. Odd years, regress.
So bring it on 2013! Let's get wasted!
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