Monthly Archives: April 2008

A Reminder

That Jim Carrey was funny.

Yo! VIP’s
Let’s kick it
Alright stop while I do up my laces
This kinda thing happens every show, yo
I gotta learn how to tie a bow
What’s your real name?

Robert Van Winkle
Why did you change it?
Nothin’ ryhmes with Winkle
I’m white, and I’m capitalizin’ on trend that’s currently risin’
Mix it with Curly and Larry and Moe
Whoop Whoop Whoop Whoop Whoop hey yo!
When you gonna stop?
Maybe never, I become richer with every endevor.
I’m livin’ large and my bank is scooped
Cause I just listen to real rap and dupe it
White white baby
He’s white white baby
So very white white baby
Extremely white white baby
I’m a little teapot short and stout
Groove Vanilla Ice work it out
I told the world I was stabbed in the butt
But it was a toilet paper cut
He’s white white baby
What is he?
White white baby
He’s white white baby
His thing is white white baby
He’s just a white white baby
Were talking white white baby
Hey guys!
Yo I’m not stupid, I just dupe it
Word to ya mudda

At Church

I know, you’re shocked to read those words and, for the most part, you’re right. I’m not much of a church goer. And things don’t seem to go well when I’m there.

I was best man at a wedding and, while waiting backstage, I had to shit. Good thing there was a bathroom right there. I go in and, unbeknownst to me, while I was in there really struggling, the priest and groom came back into the outer room.

To say that this was the loudest shit in my life would be the truth. To say I was quite surprised when I walked out and saw the priest and groom looking at me would also be the truth. I could also tell by their expression they expected me to say something. So I raised my arms triumphantly and exclaimed,

“I’m shitting for Jesus!”

This time wasn’t that much fun (at least in that one I got to void). It was crowded so we had to stand there anda there’s a kid in front of me. A baby. One of those babies aged somewhere between having lost that new baby smell and wanting to place it in a sleeper hold until it leaves home (for more on my look at babies you can always wander over to a story that lost me more than one job: Between crying and kicking the kid spotted me. And he keeps looking at me. That happens quite often. Sometimes I think they’re thinking,

“Damn! What the hell do they feed that bald ass baby? He’s huge!”

But other times I think they’re thinking,

“Zeverp blegrf fracka fracka blurg flerp.”

As you can see, I vacillate on how smart I think babies are.

But this one kept staring at me. I more or less ignore the kid. When it catches my eye I stare it down. I don’t trust babies. They don’t talk. They just stare. And when caught they pretend not to be doing whatever it was they were doing. They’re like tiny PIT’s (Perverts In Training). Finally the mother looks up at me and smiles. I smile back (I am in the house of the Lord, after all) and the woman says,

“I guess he finds you fascinating.”

“That’s because, to anything with pliable head, I am.”

I know the woman didn’t hear me or believe she heard me correctly so we kept smiling. Now the kid starts making more noise and is reaching for me. When this happens, my girlfriend becomes even more annoyed. Not only is this thing dragging but every time one baby somewhere in the room makes a sound others, unseen but definitely heard, respond like a diaper wielding choir.

I look at the woman and then at the kid. I lean down slightly and say,

“Does he like jokes?”

The woman beams and says that, yes, as a matter of fact, he’s quite adroit in his understanding of that comedic genre. I smile as I lean into the kid to begin.

“Two lesbians walk into a bar. . .”

I’m not kidding when I say the air was filled with baby powder at the speed in which she whisked the child away.

How Do You Say?

Forvo is the place where you´ll find words pronounced in their original languages.  It even has bad words.

Sorry, I’ll try not to make a habit of this type of thing.

Ten Other Things

Some time ago Wendy asked for a list of things people don’t know about me (or something. All I remember is it was list oriented. I’m lucky I’ll remember enough to get through this bit). I didn’t do it because:

1) there must be a reason people don’t know it

2) if no one knows it that means I was alone

3) If I was alone it was probably boring

4) I forgot what was supposed to go here

So the best I could come up with is a list of things people know but don’t often talk about.

1 – I made two brothers laugh at the same time making them blow their respective beverages out their respective noses.

2 – I got kicked out of boy scouts for high sticking.

3 – I was shaving my head, reached around to rinse the razor and cut a swath across my ass cheek.

4 – When I was 15-16 I did basketball clinics with NBA players and realized average sized 15-16 year olds should not have to use the same locker room as gentlemen from the NBA.

5 – I’ve always been happy my Mother didn’t name me after my father.

6 – I know too much about the movie Slap Shot and laugh every time I watch Pootie Tang. “I’m going to sine your pitty on the runny kine!”

7 – I’ve met most of my childhood heroes and a huge percentage of them were assholes.

8 – I never got around to getting a drivers license.

9 – Although I’ve never played the sport, I really love curling.

10 – I farted in front of ten thousand people. Yes, they all heard. Yes, they all knew it was me.

Okay, I’ll admit it’s not much but I’m a pretty boring, work-a-day kinda guy who does nothing that different from others.

That’s why I rarely write about me.

Why I Am

Some people have taken to the keyboard to send email asking how I get away with being somewhat confrontational and remain among the living. Still others want to try to get to the genesis of why I’m like I am.

Well, I’m not much for introspection (dark, dangerous place I’d have to assume). I do what I do, don’t go looking for trouble, recycle, scoop cat shit on a far too regular basis. Just a normal life. For me.

That said, I have always reacted in the moment. Not over reacted. Just the right push, tug, or truncheon. It’s likely a learned response from all the sports I’ve played. I’m definitely from the ‘do it and get stitched up later’ school of athletics.

I spent years training, for lack of a better term, to be mindless. A bundle of well polished reactions. Most of the time in life, and sports, you don’t know exactly what’s going to transpire from moment to moment. Sure, you know there will be some bumps and errors, but you don’t know if you’ll be the hero or the goat.

A defining moment was when a coach said he was glad I was a good athlete because, “Everyone around here’s an idiot and you’re no different.”

Okay, fine. Thinking’s out so let’s puts more emphasis on reaction. So that’s what I did. I didn’t jump to conclusions or fly off the handle. I waited. Got adept at counterpunching. I’d let someone make the first more then figure out how to beat them. A spider/fly thing, if you will.

I think the moment I proved that was the best tactic for me was when I saved my Mother’s life. There were other people on the stagecoach, but I only cared about saving my Mother.

And, yes, I said stagecoach.

I’m very old.

I was pre-ten and we went on a day trip to some wild West amusement park. Ride ’em, kid from the city who knew, without ever experiencing it, that horse shit was a bad thing.

I don’t know why, probably because it was there, we went to the gift shop right off the bat. Filled with cheap wild West trinkets manufactured in the far East.

This was back when parents would give you actual weapons to play with. A friend of mine got a bow and arrow and one day we were shredding a fence when one kid ran across the line of fire and got an arrow in the leg.

We freaked.

Then laughed.

Then ran.

Leaving him there like he tried to commit suicide with a bow and arrow.

So, being in uncertain terrain, I had my Mother purchase a tomahawk. It had a rubber blade but it had heft. I found that out when I walked around the building and threw it against the side until some salescowpoke ran out to tell me to knock that shit off.

One of the adventures during this cavalcade of joy was a stagecoach ride through the wilds. A group of us sitting on the top of the stagecoach bumping and sliding over the road. The driver is telling us stories of the desperados that lurk within these woods.

I’m sure this would have bothered me more if it weren’t for the fact that, in case of trouble, I could jump down and head to the highway visible twenty yards through the trees.

We’re rounding the bend when, out of nowhere, a gaggle of evil doers accosted us guns ‘a blazing.

I look toward the highway.

Shit! One of them is there. And he’s pointing a gun at me. Fuck!

So I look at the adults. Surely one of the men will stand up. I look at a couple of guys. They’re smiling! What are these fucks smiling about? Have they ever heard of robbery? Rape? Horse shit!?!?!

I look at my Mother and, thankfully, she had the good sense to look scared. But I didn’t like my Mother looking scared. So I looked at her boyfriend. A big guy. A woodsy guy from the great state of Maine. And he’s sitting there! Last time I listen to any of your ‘we people from up in gawd’s country are tough’ bullshit stories.

It’s hitting critical mass. The guns are firing. The bad guys are demanding our stuff. One of the horses smells. A bad guy maneuvers his horse and is almost face to face with my Mother.

“Gi’me ‘ur loot, missy.”

Oh. No. He. Didn’t!

My Mother begins to lift her purse. I look at all the guys. Nothing. Useless fucking adults. What to do? What to do?


I stand.

Look at the closest robber.

I look at the closest robber.

Now what?

I thought you’d know.



I wind up with all my might and fire my tomahawk directly into the robbers face sending him sprawling into the dirt. I moved to the edge of the stagecoach to admire my handiwork.

The guy stumbled to his feet, grabbed his horse and jogged into the woods. The remaining desperados, now knowing who they were up against, rode off into the sunset.

I turn and, with an expectation of hero worship, look at my fellow passengers. Why are they looking at me as if I’m a goat? My Mother pulls me over and sits me on the bench.

“I chased the bad guys away.” I point out incase they were still too frightened to process my amazing bravery.


I looked at my Mother for a minute and figured she just didn’t want to make a public spectacle of her pride.

The stagecoach pulls into the town where the sheriff greets us. I don’t remember what he said (I never been one to like a big fuss being made over) but I do remember three things.

1) He gave me back my tomahawk.

2) From that moment on, whenever I’ve been to any tourist place, the gift shop has been at the end of the park.

3) My Mother took my tomahawk and I never saw it again.

So, as you can see, I’m a well trained counterpuncher. I’ll follow where the lead takes me before laying the hammer down. The only difference is instead of old weapons I now do it with ancient words.

I’m hoping that’s the answer because, if it’s not, I’m just one gigantic asshole.