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!"


"I scream tooted!"

It took me a while before my ribs stopped hurting.


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


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?


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.


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.