Saturday, April 16, 2016

People who are having kids these days want to watch Youtube a lot. And since those types of people need to watch videos to figure things out, a lot of them click on weekly videos of what pregnancy is like every seven days. When you watch one of these clips you hear about all the changes a woman goes through at that time, but what I take away most is what the energetic female hostess leads with each and every time: what sized fruit or vegetable he/she is at that point.  And to be honest, after a while they start running out of fruits and vegetables that you and I have ever cooked with or even heard of.

It's not what parts of the little person has formed: the fingernails, toes, and elbows that are morphing over time, but how big a piece of produce is that little bastard. That's what we want to know. But I'm a child of the 1980's with a terrible diet, so what do I care about Asian pears and rutabegas? No! You got to give it to me in terms that I understand; Just how big an action figure are we talking here? Is he the size of Snake Eyes or is he a fully formed Devastator?

And come to think of it, Snake Eyes Noisewater has a nice ring to it . . . 

Yes. My wife's pregnant, and that's why I've not been blogging at all. I got a lot of big questions. Where am I going to get the money to raise this kiddo? And how big is this baby in terms of childhood toys? It's all a mystery and an adventure . . .


Sunday, February 28, 2016

Stealing the Missing Bases In My Dreams

I had a really vivid dream the other night where I was a professional baseball player in the midst of a heated game. I had gotten on first and was excited about stealing second. Did I mention I was Black? I'm a white dude, in case you didn't know.


I got off to a big lead, and as the pitcher went into his stretch, I got a great jump towards second. I had it stolen easy, but as I got to where the base should have been, the bag was nowhere to be found! I had beaten the throw by a mile and was frantically looking around for the base when I was tagged by the shortstop. When the umpire called me out, I was absolutely irate and hopping up and down.

The umpires got together for a long deliberation, during which time I was pleading my case to anyone who would listen. I remember discussing the matter with a Japanese teammate through his interpreter. I let him know that I was a born base stealer and it's how I made my living, and to deny me of the tangible base to take, they were denying me of my God given right! The two Japanese men seemed to agree with me based on the looks of disapproval on their faces. I can still picture them shaking their heads in disgust and disbelief about my situation.


I saw that the umpires looked to be wrapping up their discussion, so I said to my manager that if he didn't plan on arguing to the point of getting thrown out of the game, I was going to. He assured me that it was his plan to do so, but when I asked him what kind of theatrics he would be displaying during his potential upcoming tantrum, I wasn't impressed with what he had in mind. I suggested he try pulling up the second base they had just put in as well as all three other bases before being dragged off the field to demonstrate what little respect these umpires had for the bases and the rules of baseball in general. He acted as if he was considering it, but I got the feeling he was sticking to a low-key fit that in no way was elevating himself to the passion that the situation demanded.



Sure enough, the umps called me out, and my manager did his best to honor me by getting thrown out of the game, as promised, but it really did seem lackluster compared to the performance I could give. It just seemed to me that Skip didn't share the same passion that I had. I turned my hat around, rolled up my sleeves, and got ready to dig up out those bases and toss them all over the place for all the base swipers, all my teammates (especially the Japanese ones), and for anyone who has felt injustice at the hands of corrupt authority figures.

This is when I woke up. Still white. And broke.

Friday, February 19, 2016

The Man Dilator

I just had an idea.

They say that child birth is one of the most excruciating experiences a human being can experience. It has been said that if the human brain could perfectly remember pain, then no one would get pregnant a second time on purpose.

I was trying to think how men could better empathize with their partners, and I have come up with the notion of a testicle squeezing device that would clamp down harder in accordance with the howls that the woman lets out during the labor. Now, this contraption would have to be tested to make sure the squeezing wouldn't cause any permanent testicular damage - just enough to really hurt. I don't believe in animal experimentation, so maybe some broke college students could sign up to have their nuts squeezed to oblivion for a little extra beer money.

As soon as it has been thoroughly tested and the lawsuits by those annoying high voiced college kids have been settled up, thousands of men could plug in their Man Dilators, hold their lover's hand, and the two of them could go through the whole beautiful nightmare experience together. When it's finally over and their baby comes out, the two of them will be so relieved that the pain is over!

"We got a new baby boy!"

Yes, and more importantly, the clamps of death will come off my nuts!"

And he will be thinking, "Let's never do this again," so a byproduct of this could be a means of population control. You want to sire eight kids to show what a badass you are? Well, let's see what kind of tough guy you really are when you feel those first few squeezes.

What do you think, Seven Readers? Does this idea have legs, or have I lost my damn mind again?

Wait, should it be the same general idea only the device gradually stretches the man's butt hole? Would that be more congruent?

Saturday, January 23, 2016

I rode a Chicago bus yesterday to get up to the United Center for the Black Sabbath show last night, and somewhere around Milwaukee Avenue an older Mexican American fellow climbed aboard with his shoe shine box. He sat there rubbing his hands and wincing as if his hands were very much cold, in pain, or likely both. A woman seated next to must have noticed this as I did and offered him some gloves. You should have seen the look of surprise and appreciation on his face. It was a very tender moment of generosity to observe.

The glove giving gal was thin, looked to be in her late 40's or early 50's, was wearing a John Lennon type Army coat, had really short blond hair, and she had kind of a "butchy" demeanor, for lack of a better word. Actually, after the fact it dawned on me that she looked and acted a lot like like the actress, Jane Lynch, the boss in 40-Year-Old Virgin and the lesbian dog trainer in Best In Show.

"Hey, sport! Want some gloves?"
Shoe shining guy's English was not great, but that didn't stop glove-giver from telling him a bunch of information. After giving him the big and bulky gloves, she showed him the slimmer ones that she was wearing and said "These are for gun handling," and "These are for handling guns" - in case he didn't hear the first time. She said she was a retired cop and for some reason told a story about her and some other officers arresting a drug dealer. Apparently the dealer shot her partner and during the exchange giant bags of "china white" exploded everywhere and exposure to the drug led to her to being laid up in a hospital for 10 days, regularly hallucinating all through out her stay (which doesn't sound all bad).

(A good time. If you have a lot of free time in your immediate future)


Wow.

What started a nice moment of a woman performing an act of kindness for a random senior citizen quickly escalated into a crazy violent crime adventure story straight out of "Scarface." I did not see that coming at all, but you do have to expect the unexpected when you hop on a Chicago bus.

Be kind to others, readers. And watch out for accidental ingestian of dangerous amounts of "China white," whatever the hell that is. 

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Babies Spinning Plates? Yeah, I Lost My Mind.

I was out to dinner with some friends who I haven't seen in a long time, and to be honest, I barely know their wives. Some of them I hadn't even met before that night. That's how long it had been - they had met women, gotten married, and had children since last I had seen them in person. I think the last time I saw these buddies of mine was the last time I published a blog on this site. That was a joke.

The night was like this. Only in color and with slightly more casual attire.
I was kind of struggling with conversation to make because a couple of the guys that I really wanted to catch up with were way on the other end of a table of around 12 people. One couple was simultaneously checking their baby monitors on their phones as they sat down. I don't have kids yet, so I guess I can't say that I won't do the same thing, but isn't that being a little paranoid? I mean, what could you possibly see on that screen that would freak you out enough to rush home or to the telephone? I asked if the baby was doing anything cool on the screen, like juggling, or maybe spinning some plates like on an old Ed Sullivan Show. I thought that was hilarious, just picturing a baby running back and forth keeping four or five plates spinning in his little crib with that standard plate spinning song heard in the clip below. Everyone spun plates to that song, right? Then I was saying it would be a real pisser if they saw their baby doing something miraculous like that on their phone and couldn't record it. Nobody would believe them.

Nobody thought that was funny. Why am I so damned weird?


(That's the song.)


(And that's a guy spinning plates on the Ed Sullivan Show. Don't know how in the hell I couldn't find a guy spinning plates to the actual song. I guess just play them both and hit mute on the second one if you want the full effect. Ah, to hell with it.)

Then some of the wives were talking about those damned "Housewives" shows where those crazy ladies demonstrate that they haven't evolved passed middle school and are mean and caddy and gossipy about one another. There are loads of respectable mothers out there that are more deserving of their own show to be a representative of a non psycho homemaker, and what's more, some of the women on the show have their own businesses. So they shouldn't they be offended to be called housewives?

Anyway, someone was talking about the God awful British one, and I just blurted out, "Oh, she is the worst. She used to be like the voice of reason on that show, but now she is meaner than all of them. She pries and asks deeply personal questions of everyone, and then uses that info against them. And she never admits she's wrong, which I especially hate." I realized that I had said too much. I had tipped them all off that I am a man that actually watches that crap. My wife will have it on, and I get sucked into it, proving that if I want to waste time - I will force myself to get interested in just about anything. And I have been wasting way too much time lately.

Here she is. She has miniature horses and swans and shit, and she's terrible.
When I blurted out how much I knew about a specific housewife and it was evident how passionate I was about hating her so, it was hilarious to all the women on my end of the table. I made them laugh on accident. The plate spinning babies wasn't at all funny, but I got a laugh one way or another.


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

What Does It Say About Me That THESE Are the Video Games That I Like?

I have a friend who works at an arcade bar where they serve beers, so it's not hard for him to talk me into visiting his work place. After going around to see which games to play, I noticed that I seem to always gravitate towards Tapper and N.A.R.C. What alarms me is that these are the two games that most involve beer and drugs.

In Tapper (1983) you control a bartender pouring beers and passing them down three or four long bars to advancing customers. If a customer makes it all the way to the end of the bar without getting a drink, they pick you up and throw you down the bar (costing you a life). Also, if they send an empty glass down the bar before you can catch it, that also results in a lost life. It's a fast paced strategy game, but I'm always wondering why this doesn't staff more bartenders? I also start wondering why there isn't any security up in there? It seems like a scary place to work when a customer can whip your ass for not getting a drink out fast enough.

Believe it or not, this game was sponsered by Budweiser, there is a Budweiser sign on the side of the game and hanging up on the wall of the video game bar, and at one point they say "This Bud's for you!" I used to play this game at a family pizza place as a little kid, and even then I thought it was amazing that I could put in a quarter and be a bartender!



If you thought Tapper was nuts you have got to play N.A.R.C. (1988). In this shoot-em-up classic you control special agents looking to bring down Mr. Big, the nation's biggest drug dealer. Along the way you arrest a number of suspects, but usually you shoot them with a machine gun or blow them to hell with a rocket launcher. There are times in the game where you will blow something up and bags of cocaine will fly everywhere, at which time you scoop them up. At the end of each level it shows how many busts you made, confirmed kills you racked up, and how many drugs you confiscated.  One level there are guys heaving giant seringes at you, and then in another there are steroid abusing guys picking up dumpsters and chucking them at you. This game really put the "war" in the whole "War On Drugs" thing that was going on in the 1980's. It's a blast!



Boy, I'm getting excited just talking about these two classics. I may be paying my friend another visit really soon. See you around, blog buddies. 

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

"If only I had one of grandpa's swords . . ."
My wife's grandfather told an interesting story over breakfast the morning after Thanksgiving. I go out to northern California to be with her family ever year, and it's always good to see grandpa. He is well into his 80's, fought in World War II, and he is one of the only guys still around who can say they were at Normandy. He is also the proud owner of one of the most impressive antique weapons collections known to man. As a matter of fact, Charlie Watts once came over to his house to buy one of his swords. Grandpa isn't a fan of rock music so he wasn't as excited about that visit as I would have been. All he remembers about Charlie is how dirty his fingernails were.


Anyway, grandpa is offered bacon and said that he better not after he had bacon with the family a year ago and drove home. Apparently the bacon was causing a serious need to get to the bathroom for the last few miles of his ride (he still drives!), and in his rush to get to the toilet upon opening the door, he accidentally kicked the trip wire he had set up and released tear gas all over him and all through out the house. Grandpa is big on keeping his home and the weapons collection tightly secured and evidently engineered the whole trip wire tear gas thing. He said that he couldn't leave the house because he still had that urgent call from nature, and he then had to sit there and finish his business, just enduring the pain with his eyes burning. He truly is from the "Greatest Generation." I would have cried and screamed loud enough for all my neighbors to hear, and they would all step outside to see what the commotion was all about just in time to see me pooping the bushes. And still crying.

What is funny is that Mrs. Noisewater's dad, grandpa's step-son, was quick to point out that this wasn't the first time that grandpa had set off his own tear gas bomb upon himself. Maybe he has an immunity built up so that he can fight off a would be intruder through the haze and eye burning? Who knows.

In any event, here's hoping your next "movement" is in a cozy and comfortable spot free of any chemical weaponry.