Scroto

So, in less then a week from now, my brother Scroto will be home from Von Schmizelville. I was reminiscing the fond memories I have of him.

Here are some:
Punching his knuckles with my braces
Hitting his elbow with my temple
Smacking his hand with my cowlick

Actually, he really didn't beat me up at all. We never fought much because he was too busy smelling flowers and baking cookies. Sometimes I would make him cry by tickling him too much. I'm sorry Dave, please forgive me.

Anyway, that got me thinking to all the crazy things we did when we were younger. (like one-on-one baseball with Ben Dover, Ernie N. Bertson, Pops Ickle, Henry Arms, and so on.)
I decided to see if I could find some mention of the things we made up (or thought we made up) when we were younger.

1. The most sacred of all sport--Limpiefoot was no where to be found according to Google. (I even checked this.) I can hardly believe it. We were supposed to pass it on to the youth of America--now look at the mess we're in. No Limpiefoot= no love. We tried to play a game a few years ago, and we were winded after about .0045 minutes. Man, and to think, we used to play for 3 or 4 hours at a pop back in the day. Stupid beers. Mmmm...beer.


2. Tackle Basketball. I know we didn't event this. I have heard too many war stories about this sport from people I never met before to believe that we invented it. In fact, just the other day, a complete stranger was walking by me as we got off the subway. At the top of the exit stairs, a construction crew had set up a chain-link fence to keep the riff-raff out. This guy suddenly dropped to the ground in the fetal position. Some old lady walking by stopped and asked if he was alright. He could mutter only, "cheese grater..." It's real. See for yourself here.

3. One sport the lead singer of my third band, was good at was Tunnel Rat Tag. He was thin and quick in the tunnels, and great at taunting who was it. I think there were three types of tunnel rat tag player: There were the climber and runners, who could run across the monkey bars like squirrels in a tree; there were the tunnelers, who were unbelievably quick in the tunnels, and there were the intellectuals who quietly climbed out on the furthest ledge and waited for the person who was it to finally notice them, then shook the ledge as much as possible when they started to climb out, inducing a fall, and a free run to another tactical position. Yeah, tunnel rat was great, but not so much in the rain-then it hurt. I can't believe we all made it out alive. The only reference online is some stupid GI Joe crap. (GI Joe rocks, the site is crap.)

4. Enders cliff jumping started out as a way to cool off in the hot summer months down here in balmy southern New England. We used to ride our bikes there and slide down the rock slide, innocent like newborn babies. Then Russ showed up and changed everything we knew about reality. Russ sounds like a tough name, but this Russ looked like Screech Powers in a wetsuit. He climbed up the rocks and jumped from places we didn't know existed, into pools of water that we never dreamed of. Of course, we had to give it a go. We were jumping off 25' cliffs into 4' of water before too long (seriously!) We had one jump (The Fugitive), where you needed someone to stand next to where you needed to land in order to accurately hit the right spot. It was scary, looking down from 15' at a guy in 2' of water, pointing in front of him saying, "Land here, you'll be fine." One time we did a triple jump near the slide, and even jumped at night once. Through it all, only one person got hurt "falling down the stairs."

5. Barnball. Barnball should be a national sport. It was quite possibly as good as Limpiefoot in the sport aspect (Limpiefoot was also an intellectual game, sort of like Chess, and very distinguished and proper, plus it was named after the coolest band ever.) Barnball had the Roman stick, which could be your best friend one game and your worse enemy the next. It was always good advice to be nice to the person controlling the Roman stick or else you'd get whacked. I remember the white Michael Jordan played with us a lot. He always got hurt. There was a stretch of time when he got hurt doing everything he did, including getting a paper cut on his ass from toilet tissue. One time he fell through the floor playing barnball. It was so predictable. Apparently, there's all sorts of folks playing barnball. But I think they're all playing it by the European rules, which must be played in Koala Swimwear. When I build a barn, I'm gonna teach my kids to play barnball inbetween doing their chores. They're going be the best ever! I will name them Grolando and Frelé.

6. Chorkball was a lesser known sport played by the band Choad. They were comprised of a hippie, an artisté , an Oriental (inside joke-not racial) and two assbag brothers. Chorkball began because rehearsal was crap and my mom came home and told us to "...shut up or else I'll get the plastic spoon!" (Plus, she's a ninja so we were all scared.) I think Chorkball was played twice before the league disbanded and the hall of fame was shut down.

That's all I can think of. There might have been more that I don't know about or forgot because they were caca. Stinky caca.

Autumn

So today is the first day of fall. I like the fall. I like chips.
The air is cooler, crisper and easier to breath than paste or water. (Though paste tastes better.) There's apple picking, Thanksgiving, hiking, pumpkins, fairs, raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles, and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages, tied up with strings... uh, sorry...
Also, fall = football and (finally a season that's not Mrs. Dash) the start of NHL hockey. I think I might buy the hockey package from the cable company so I can watch every Thrashers game then sue them when I fail another exam. Those stupid jerks.

Don't ever read the news articles that I post on the side in the "In the News" links.
Just don't. It wouldn't be right.

So, every fall, my organization (I stole this reference style from whitey blacks), has an annual fund drive with a charity. I won't refer to it by name, but I'll tell you it rhymes with "You Knighted Whey."

Here's the deal:

1. They start by promoting the fund drive with these fancy leaflets that are more glossy than Woody Harrelson's eyes, and more ornately bound than my diploma. (Granted, I graduated from here)

2. You give them money and then you get special recognition, like "The President's Award" or "Distinguished Giver," or "Crazy Ninja From Hell."
(Okay, I made up the last one.)

3. Then they publish this other leaflet, just as fancy as the first, that lists who gave money and groups them according to how much they gave.

The head suits in my organization (ha! I love calling it that) all promote this fund drive like crazy, which makes me think it's their way of lessening the guilt they feel from making beaucoup bucks and buying Porsche SUVs and 5,500 sq. ft. houses overlooking the valley. Especially since my organization is stereotypically the fat pig, capitalist, eat your babies, type of group that most Americans distrust. (Yes, I'm a Catholic Priest...or, Yes, I'm a lawyer...or Yes, I work for FOXnews...or Yes, I'm a fortune teller...or Yes, I'm crazy book face, give me some candy!)

I imagine the fancy leaflets cost money to make. Even if it was done for free, those people making them could have done something else and got paid, then donated the money, right?
Don't get me wrong, donating is good. I'm glad people give, and to any charity. If they didn't then I'd have to (or at least, I'd be more compelled to.) But it seems to me that this particular fund raising event (not the actual charity) held at my organization is in some way directed towards relieving guilt and boasting about giving and goodness. I'd rather anonymously donate (which I probably can do with this fund drive, but it's easier to complain), which would cost less money (producing the brochure, having some weinie making sure my name's spelled correctly for the President's Award, printing the who's who of the donors., etc.) and put more money into the hands of those who can help. It's like when the "Police Brotherhood Against Crimes Against People Who Are Against Bad Guys" calls your house and askes you to donate. They give you the whole schpeel and when you ask how much actually goes to the police, they either don't know, or say something less than 15%, seriously, read on.
Here's a real story of what actually happened to my master:

Michelle: How much actually goes to the police?

Police Fund Raiser Dude: Uh, 100%? (I'm Ron Burgandy?)

Michelle: So you're working for free?

Police Fund Raiser Dude: Uh, no. Let me check with my manager.

Moments past like sand through an hour glass, so are the days of our-

Police Fund Raiser Dude: (interrupting) It's between 8% and 12%.
(The last part is not an actual quote, but a still accurate, paraphrased quote.)

So, my way of sticking it to the man is to donate to charities where my organization has promised to match my donation. Then they have to shell out bucks without getting a fancy leaflet. Plus, I crap in the hallways sometimes too, but that's mainly coincidence.

Wow, looking back I realized I sounded like ChiTe, or Tom Cruise. I'm going to jump on my couch and stir up the aliens living inbetween the cushions so we can stop the insanity.

Anyway, here's a diagram of my drum layout as it is now. I only need (send cash to me) to buy two more cymbals to have a set worthy of playing. So far, I've had the set 2 months and refuse to touch it. I just need an 18" crash and a 20" China cymbal. (Just send cash, I want to pick them out myself.)



Click on the picture to get a larger view, (I mean it, it's large), where you can see the specs as well.

I have no idea what it has to do with fall, but two toilets magically appeared outside of my garage today too.

Ah, autumn. Pretty soon I'll eat apples again, even if only for a day.

Golf Season Ends

Yesterday we played the last golf round of the season. It was a scramble at some public course in the Lower East End of West Hartford Center. I shot the ball well. We came in first (tied with some other lackies that lucked out an Eagle on the last hole) at 3-under par 33.

I won a huge sum of money: $12.50. I used it to buy dinner at the after-party.
Plus, I finished with 6th best net ringers, and my team finished 6th overall, so in the end I took home a combined sum of $57.50. I'm going to use the money for a golf lesson. Then next year...ha ha ha ha...I'm gonna hustle everyone! Sweet like ninjas!

Since the last sprucing up I haven't done any work around the house. We went to Cheeseville New England last weekend and read about worms, and the weeknights I spend sitting on the couch, eatting chips, getting fatter. I haven't even put in the outlet for the freezer in the basement, which I bet I could fit 400 boxes of White Castles in.

By the way, I've added word verification to commenting function. This is so I don't get spam comments from jack-jerkies. I hope it doesn't deter you from leaving a comment. Anonymous comments are still allowed, and don;t need to sign up for anything to leave a comment (I think.)

An Actual Quote

So, Michelle actually said this: "guess I'm not that great of a wife..."

I think we all want her to be a great wife so let's show her our support by electronically signing a "petition" for her here. This is a show of support. I figure if enough people tell her (via this blog posting) that she is a good wife, she might actually start to recognize the truth. I know she's great. She just needs a little support.

Click here to show your support.

I'll share your comments with her.

Full House

So, this passed weekend, we had nearly sixty people at our new lakeside cottage. My official count is 57. I never would have allowed my wife to invite that many people, had I known, but she cleverly deceived me into thinking there would be only 25-30 people. Actually, it was difficult for me to tell how many people were there since I was busy cooking, and picking up things, showing people around, playing drums, etc.

All in all, it was a fun day...so I've heard. I finally got a chance to sit down and visit with guests at around 6:00 PM. By then, all the people I would have wanted to chat with had left. Only my parents, my wife, and her parents were left. Yuck! Nah... I'm just kidding--there were other people left too. And I don't mind the company of the older (they must be like 35!) folks either.

I knew there was wiffle ball in the front yard, a mad game of bocce ball passed by the grill a few times, and a little ping pong too. When it was dark, we had a small fire, and sacrificed a neighborhood cat to bless the house. Plus, some people gave us presents, which (no exaggeration) are very cool. We're going to use the presents to start our next camp fire!

Prior to the party, we wanted to spruce up the joint a little. I changed all the outlets and switches on the first floor, (except for the bathroom-which I forgot), and replaced the kitchen light and the kitchen hallway light. I only got shocked once. But I had a hard time with one GFI outlet, so I temporarily put in a regular outlet after chain swearing failed to get the GFI outlet to work.
Plus, we painted the entire downstairs except for the living room and the bathroom. So that means we've painted the grand ballroom, the library, the study, the den, the dining hall, the private dining room, the pool room, the kitchen, the walk in pantry, the family room, the theatre, and the mud room. Prior to that, every room in the entire house was white. Not that I dislike white, but a little too much was just plain blah.

Now we need to paint the upstairs, which means painting all 7 bedrooms, all 4 bathrooms, and the hallway, and upstairs observatory. This time I'll try to remember to turn the power off before changing any outlets.

P.S. We actually sacrificed a small child, but I knew people would get all offended by that, so I lied and typed that we sacrificed a cat instead. Please don't read these sentences if this kind of thing offends you. Thanks. And don't forget to donate to the red cross if you can.