To me, the two strangest non-laws in America are that anybody can rent a U-Haul truck without a special license and anyone can buy a chainsaw without having special training. To make matters worse, I now own a chainsaw stuck on the end of a long pole. Yes, my wife would like those dangling vines cut down from 10-feet high and yes God gave me two arms so I could still have one if I lost one in a pole chain-saw accident.
Now, it seems she wants these vines cut down at about the 20-feet-high level because I was sent up the ladder with my Decapitate-O-Matic! Yes, there I stood wildly swinging the death blade on a stick from a wobbly ladder. Somehow the vines got whacked and I did not.
My good friend Darren "Jethro" Thompson topped this story by saying his neighbor asked him to hold the ladder while his neighbor scurried up the ladder of death. Now only one thing could be more dangerous than standing on the ladder and swinging the chainsaw wildly. That is standing beneath the wild blade swinger. If you are the ladder holder there any combination of approximately six different heavy or sharp objects that could rain down on your noggin; the objects being sawed, the sawyer (fancy word for one who saws), the ladder, the pole, the chain-saw motor, or the sharp, jagged metal rotating "teeth of a jaguar" cutting part of the saw.
Once again I escaped another day of yard work with my limbs intact which I am convinced only gives my wife another day of false security that I am capable of making the yard look better and not leave blood stains. I tremble because we are not far away from Christmas lights on the roof season. Maybe Jethro and I can put the lights up by hooking the lights on the end of the pole chain saw, from a ladder affixed to the top of a U-Haul as we drive by. I guess we need a third manly man to hold the ladder as we fly by. I know Mell's wife, Kelly, has bought into the invincible husband doing yardwork myth. Hey Mell, what are you doing the Friday after Thanksgiving?
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Halloween Costume Diagnosis
Oh yeah! It’s time for the greatest American holiday ever! Halloweeeeeeeeen! Just dress up in funny clothes and get candy! What could be simpler? It’s also good training for future capitalist. Put a little effort into putting on a work uniform, going out into the cold and get paid a little sugar.
This memo is for you adults who didn’t get the memo, you too can play along. Even if you are the stay at home candy-giver-outer (like an offensive lineman, perhaps the most forgotten but most important cog in this cycle of hyperkinetic life) you too can still dress up and play along.
As a licensed psychotherapist I can assess your personality through your costume choices. If you choose the scallywag pirate costume then you’re the kind of person who sometimes goes wild and crazy and occasionally runs a yellow light or fudges just a teeny weenie on your tax exemptions. Yep, creating havoc in the intersections and plundering from the government is your cup of ale.
Cowboy costumes reflect those of you who enjoy the great outdoors by daring to roll down the window in your car a couple of days in October and say “Boy, the fresh air feels good!” You enjoy looking at the great vastness and openness of the plains on your high def 64” television.
The hippie costume of long hair, peace signs, and tie-dyed shirts is a classic for those of us who remember our glory days (and haven’t really done much since). (By the way we know the store doesn’t sell them with that particular herbal scent reeking from them.)
If you go for the big glasses, pocket protector Nerd costume. Then lets just say you may not have been the orangest pumpkin in the patch. Yessiree, if you can’t beat ‘em… well truth is you probably did beat up a few nerds before you became an adult and realized the proper way to address a nerd is, “Yes sir, you’re the boss.” The mullet wig and Billy Bob rotten teeth may seem funny to you nerdy types who now have financial control of the world. But don’t forget the guy coming around dressed as a nerd may not find it so funny. While you may feel you have the right to press charges for wedgies and swirlies it is very hard to actually get a conviction with so many people running around in masks on. See what I mean, Halloween, the greatest American holiday!
This memo is for you adults who didn’t get the memo, you too can play along. Even if you are the stay at home candy-giver-outer (like an offensive lineman, perhaps the most forgotten but most important cog in this cycle of hyperkinetic life) you too can still dress up and play along.
As a licensed psychotherapist I can assess your personality through your costume choices. If you choose the scallywag pirate costume then you’re the kind of person who sometimes goes wild and crazy and occasionally runs a yellow light or fudges just a teeny weenie on your tax exemptions. Yep, creating havoc in the intersections and plundering from the government is your cup of ale.
Cowboy costumes reflect those of you who enjoy the great outdoors by daring to roll down the window in your car a couple of days in October and say “Boy, the fresh air feels good!” You enjoy looking at the great vastness and openness of the plains on your high def 64” television.
The hippie costume of long hair, peace signs, and tie-dyed shirts is a classic for those of us who remember our glory days (and haven’t really done much since). (By the way we know the store doesn’t sell them with that particular herbal scent reeking from them.)
If you go for the big glasses, pocket protector Nerd costume. Then lets just say you may not have been the orangest pumpkin in the patch. Yessiree, if you can’t beat ‘em… well truth is you probably did beat up a few nerds before you became an adult and realized the proper way to address a nerd is, “Yes sir, you’re the boss.” The mullet wig and Billy Bob rotten teeth may seem funny to you nerdy types who now have financial control of the world. But don’t forget the guy coming around dressed as a nerd may not find it so funny. While you may feel you have the right to press charges for wedgies and swirlies it is very hard to actually get a conviction with so many people running around in masks on. See what I mean, Halloween, the greatest American holiday!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Confessions of a Costumed Triathlete
This is an article I had published in Triathlete Magazine in January, 2007
I don’t mean to brag, but I won my division in every race I entered last year. Yes, at St. Anthony’s I won the Pirate Division, at Disney; the Rodent Division, Gulf Coast; the Cowboy Division, and at Ironman Florida; the IronNerd Division. Yes, much to my triathlete wife’s embarrassment I am a costumed triathlete.
It all started at Disney. Actually it all started at whatever triathlon I did before Disney that turned into just a long boring slog after a long hard bike ride preceded by floating in my wetsuit while doing occasional taste tests of the Gulf of Mexico. I needed a little levity and I thought what better place than the Magic Kingdom?
I hid my Mickey ears and my big overstuffed white Mickey gloves under my towel. (Next year I‘m going to try to slip on some big yellow fins and go as Donald in the swim.) As I came out of the T2 transition the reaction was bigger and better than I expected. Everyone cheers for the mouse! The number of athletes, fans, and volunteers that wanted to high four (for all you non-Disnoids, Mickey only has four fingers) was countless. The volunteer stations that gave me the “Hey Mickey your so fine, your so fine you blow my mind!” cheer made me forget my nearly Clydesdale physique.
I definitely realized something that day that would give me an ongoing rationalization to be a costumed tri-geek for life. Volunteers, family members and fans need a break from the hours of exaggerating the “Looking good,” and “Almost there!” mantra. Seeing a costumed figure does just that and it gives them something to laugh about.
Next came the idea that literally giving back to the fans would take it up another notch. So at St. Anthony’s I decided to go as a pirate and throw doubloons to the fans, especially the kids who should be rewarded for standing around waiting for their mom or dad to pass by three times in three hours. Hey, why not take it to an even higher level with a sign? Yes, on my pirate’s hook I put a sign that read “Surrender the Booty!” (Hey! I don’t know what your thinking, that’s Pirate for “Go for the gold! Argggh!) The reaction was raucous! I have to say I was definitely “hooked” now!
My wife pointed out one small drawback after looking at my splits. She was astounded that I had an eight minute transition! I calmly explained to her, “Sherrie, I’m not really a pirate.” I didn’t detail the broken eye patch, the earring that kept falling off, or the doubloons that kept spilling all over the place.
The coup de gras came when Ironman Florida arrived. It was the week before the race and I had given in to the conventional “You can’t wear a costume to do an Ironman!!” thought when my friend Dana stood me up for an open water swim (thanks a lot, “Mr. oh yeah call me anytime I’ll do whatever it is to help you train”). He said he was at a lunchtime run for state workers. Ahh, state workers! The vision of all these guys gathered at the starting line in khaki pants, white short sleeve shirts, black glasses and black clip-on ties was too much to resist! Yes, this was the birth of …The IronNerd!
At Ironman Florida I was like Clark Kent on a bicycle looking for a telephone booth. “Must…get…to…T2…” On the back of my jersey I had written, “Out of my mind, back in 17 hours!” On the front was, “Mathletes need love too!” I also donned my black clip-on tie and taped up glasses and rocketed from the transition area pumping my fist and yelling, “Whoo! Chicks dig the IronNerd!” As you can imagine the love fest between the fans and the IronNerd continued deep (really deep) into the night.
I only have two rules for costumed triathletes: First, respect the heat. Nobody wants to see the paramedics wasting their time on some idiot who decided to go as an astronaut by wrapping himself up in tinfoil and wearing a fishbowl for a helmet. My rule is this, wearing a costume is just as legally binding as wearing a “Do Not Resuscitate” sign.
Finally, if someone is avoiding eye contact with you because they are embarrassed for you, do not get closer and louder to prove how cool you really are. Non-costumed people somehow twist this around to reinforcing their opinion that you are the very definition of the opposite of cool. (Non-costumed people are just kind of strange that way.)
I don’t mean to brag, but I won my division in every race I entered last year. Yes, at St. Anthony’s I won the Pirate Division, at Disney; the Rodent Division, Gulf Coast; the Cowboy Division, and at Ironman Florida; the IronNerd Division. Yes, much to my triathlete wife’s embarrassment I am a costumed triathlete.
It all started at Disney. Actually it all started at whatever triathlon I did before Disney that turned into just a long boring slog after a long hard bike ride preceded by floating in my wetsuit while doing occasional taste tests of the Gulf of Mexico. I needed a little levity and I thought what better place than the Magic Kingdom?
I hid my Mickey ears and my big overstuffed white Mickey gloves under my towel. (Next year I‘m going to try to slip on some big yellow fins and go as Donald in the swim.) As I came out of the T2 transition the reaction was bigger and better than I expected. Everyone cheers for the mouse! The number of athletes, fans, and volunteers that wanted to high four (for all you non-Disnoids, Mickey only has four fingers) was countless. The volunteer stations that gave me the “Hey Mickey your so fine, your so fine you blow my mind!” cheer made me forget my nearly Clydesdale physique.
I definitely realized something that day that would give me an ongoing rationalization to be a costumed tri-geek for life. Volunteers, family members and fans need a break from the hours of exaggerating the “Looking good,” and “Almost there!” mantra. Seeing a costumed figure does just that and it gives them something to laugh about.
Next came the idea that literally giving back to the fans would take it up another notch. So at St. Anthony’s I decided to go as a pirate and throw doubloons to the fans, especially the kids who should be rewarded for standing around waiting for their mom or dad to pass by three times in three hours. Hey, why not take it to an even higher level with a sign? Yes, on my pirate’s hook I put a sign that read “Surrender the Booty!” (Hey! I don’t know what your thinking, that’s Pirate for “Go for the gold! Argggh!) The reaction was raucous! I have to say I was definitely “hooked” now!
My wife pointed out one small drawback after looking at my splits. She was astounded that I had an eight minute transition! I calmly explained to her, “Sherrie, I’m not really a pirate.” I didn’t detail the broken eye patch, the earring that kept falling off, or the doubloons that kept spilling all over the place.
The coup de gras came when Ironman Florida arrived. It was the week before the race and I had given in to the conventional “You can’t wear a costume to do an Ironman!!” thought when my friend Dana stood me up for an open water swim (thanks a lot, “Mr. oh yeah call me anytime I’ll do whatever it is to help you train”). He said he was at a lunchtime run for state workers. Ahh, state workers! The vision of all these guys gathered at the starting line in khaki pants, white short sleeve shirts, black glasses and black clip-on ties was too much to resist! Yes, this was the birth of …The IronNerd!
At Ironman Florida I was like Clark Kent on a bicycle looking for a telephone booth. “Must…get…to…T2…” On the back of my jersey I had written, “Out of my mind, back in 17 hours!” On the front was, “Mathletes need love too!” I also donned my black clip-on tie and taped up glasses and rocketed from the transition area pumping my fist and yelling, “Whoo! Chicks dig the IronNerd!” As you can imagine the love fest between the fans and the IronNerd continued deep (really deep) into the night.
I only have two rules for costumed triathletes: First, respect the heat. Nobody wants to see the paramedics wasting their time on some idiot who decided to go as an astronaut by wrapping himself up in tinfoil and wearing a fishbowl for a helmet. My rule is this, wearing a costume is just as legally binding as wearing a “Do Not Resuscitate” sign.
Finally, if someone is avoiding eye contact with you because they are embarrassed for you, do not get closer and louder to prove how cool you really are. Non-costumed people somehow twist this around to reinforcing their opinion that you are the very definition of the opposite of cool. (Non-costumed people are just kind of strange that way.)
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?
Dateline Miami: A Wendy’s manager is shot in the arm trying to enforce the two packet chili sauce limit.
When people joke about prisoners having to state to other prisoners why they are locked up some stories sound a little sillier than others.
“Why are you in?”
“Grand theft.”
“What’ya steal.”
“A Chihuahua. Who knew Miss Muffy was a grand champion.”
Things cannot go well in prison after you earn the nickname, “Chihuahua Boy.”
However, I imagine after you tell the tale of “the man” trying to hold you down by limiting you to two chili packs you probably get a lot of respect.
I wouldn’t pull out a gun over it but I have had the condiment patrol harass me before. Anyone who’s a ketchup and fat fry guy knows it takes eight packs of ketchup to outlast a Biggie order of Wendy’s fries. (I mean back when I ate French fries, yeah that’s it, back when I actually ate French fries, wink, wink.) Skinny fries like Mickey D’s don’t need any ketchup but fat fries need some serious tomato pasting.
Well, one day when I was on my way to a speaking gig my wife and I stopped at a Wendy’s (yes, that’s how big my speaking per diem is, a Wendy’s!). After I had asked and rather grouchily been given my eight ketchups my wife was at the counter waiting for her order when she heard the cashier say, “He ain’t gonna eat all them ketchups! He’s taking ‘em home!”
Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? I could also take about twenty paper towels out of every bathroom I stopped at and never have to buy or launder towels again! Hey, I could open up a booth at the Flea Market and sell ketchup, salt, pepper, straws, plastic ware, and little cups that other people use for free water!
I know the restaurant business has a close cut profit margin center; after all didn’t Subway take over the world by being the napkin Nazis and only giving you one napkin per sandwich? But I think its time to lighten up on the condiment policy otherwise fast food restaurants are going to have to start paying combat pay. Meanwhile Wendy’s should start its new ad campaign, “ Wendy’s Chili Sauce, a Real Shot in the Arm!” or“Chili Sauce, Worth Going to Prison For!,” No, I’ve got it, “Wendy’s Chili Sauce Worth an Arm and a… Well, Just an Arm.”
When people joke about prisoners having to state to other prisoners why they are locked up some stories sound a little sillier than others.
“Why are you in?”
“Grand theft.”
“What’ya steal.”
“A Chihuahua. Who knew Miss Muffy was a grand champion.”
Things cannot go well in prison after you earn the nickname, “Chihuahua Boy.”
However, I imagine after you tell the tale of “the man” trying to hold you down by limiting you to two chili packs you probably get a lot of respect.
I wouldn’t pull out a gun over it but I have had the condiment patrol harass me before. Anyone who’s a ketchup and fat fry guy knows it takes eight packs of ketchup to outlast a Biggie order of Wendy’s fries. (I mean back when I ate French fries, yeah that’s it, back when I actually ate French fries, wink, wink.) Skinny fries like Mickey D’s don’t need any ketchup but fat fries need some serious tomato pasting.
Well, one day when I was on my way to a speaking gig my wife and I stopped at a Wendy’s (yes, that’s how big my speaking per diem is, a Wendy’s!). After I had asked and rather grouchily been given my eight ketchups my wife was at the counter waiting for her order when she heard the cashier say, “He ain’t gonna eat all them ketchups! He’s taking ‘em home!”
Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? I could also take about twenty paper towels out of every bathroom I stopped at and never have to buy or launder towels again! Hey, I could open up a booth at the Flea Market and sell ketchup, salt, pepper, straws, plastic ware, and little cups that other people use for free water!
I know the restaurant business has a close cut profit margin center; after all didn’t Subway take over the world by being the napkin Nazis and only giving you one napkin per sandwich? But I think its time to lighten up on the condiment policy otherwise fast food restaurants are going to have to start paying combat pay. Meanwhile Wendy’s should start its new ad campaign, “ Wendy’s Chili Sauce, a Real Shot in the Arm!” or“Chili Sauce, Worth Going to Prison For!,” No, I’ve got it, “Wendy’s Chili Sauce Worth an Arm and a… Well, Just an Arm.”
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