Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Random Blog Effluvium

My five-year old daughter was atop the throne, doing her business, when I hear through the half-open door of the bathroom one of those drawn out, high-pitched, train-whistle kind of farts (or "toots" as we call them) emenate from her general vicinity.

There is a pause, a delighted giggle, and then she calls out, "DAD!"

"What?"

"I scream tooted!"

It took me a while before my ribs stopped hurting.

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I like the New Years Resolutions over at Six-Meat Buffet. No, really.

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Medium-sized child (8 yrs old) comes up to me the other day and lays out quite the deft little guilt trip. He's trying to finnagle a trip to the park for a little catch. So he hits me with this:

"You know what they say about playing catch with your child, don't you, Dad?"

"No, what's that?"

"It's a great way to create a stronger bond between father and son."

8 years old. Wholely fabricated heartfelt sincerity, complete with Nermal-esque eyes. Needless to say, after I quit laughing, we went and played catch. How can you argue with such ironclad logic?

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It has taken 10 years of marriage for me to realize that my wife (though she will vehemently deny it) hates Christmas. She talks a good game, puts up all the requisite ornamentation, but deep down really harbors a secret resentment towards the holiday which, for 33 years, has eclipsed her birthday which fall just 9 days earlier. It has also taken me almost exactly as long to realize that she PMS's flat smack dab in the big middle of the whole shebang. I mean, come on, how many cry at Christmas? Cry?! Not just once, but repeatedly! Over stooopid shit?!

Many things from years past all of a sudden make much more sense.

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Despite being in the Marines, I'm not normally that prone to using shitty language. I also tend to view those who delve into it to excessively as borderline neanderthal.

And yet, there are those who, through judicious selection or just plain hilarious over-indulgence, can make even a nearly unending stream of invective fit nicely into a pleasing narrative. One such is Greg Beck, apparent proprietor and bar keep over at "Death's Door." He's got an awesome wit and no-nonsense approach to the idiocy of other people. His frequent use of the word muthaf*cker (usually in the context of "stupid muthaf*cker") -- a word I would normally shy away from in polite discourse -- somehow comes across not so much as offensive, but as culturally apropo. I think he pulls it off because you soon realize, beneath all the ebonics and jive, he's smart as hell. If you don't mind a liberal sprinkling of the ol' F-bomb in a creative context, swing by. Astute, scathing, and funny as a muthaf*cker.

That is all. Please return to your homes, citizens.