Say Eight! Say Eight!

Brian Regan in his element.

I didn't really have anything planned for Valentine's Day, nothing spectacular anyway.  Last year, Theresa and I went to San Francisco for Valentine's weekend, and it was wonderful.  This year, though, it was looking like a quiet dinner and maybe a movie when a friend of mine and I stumbled on an idea.

I was showing Matt a video on iTunes of my favorite stand-up comedian Brian Regan.  If you're not familiar with his work, Regan is simply the funniest comic on the planet.  It's not even up for discussion.  I know what you're thinking.  "But Chris, that's just your opinion.  There are lots of great comics out there, it's just a matter of taste.  You can't say unequivocally that Brian Regan is the funniest."

Generally, I'd agree with you.  When it comes to most comedians, it does depend on one's personal taste as to what's funny and what isn't.  Look at Chris Rock for example, another one of my favorites, I find him hilarious and intelligent, unafraid to take on hot-button issues.  But lots of folks find him offensive.  They're put off by his foul language and his focus on racial issues.  Guys like Mitch Hedberg and Stephen Wright specialize in dead-pan one-liners, often from an absurd point of view.  "I live on a one way, dead end street," says Wright.  "I can never use my car."  Some people think these guys are hysterical; others don't get them at all.

Brian Regan chooses topics that everyone can relate to, and puts a spin on them that will bring you to tears in laughter.  From his take on Fig Newtons ("A serving size of Fig Newtons is two cookies.  Who the hell eats TWO cookies?  I eat Fig Newtons by the sleeve.") to his trip the emergency room ("Then the nurse said she was gonna give me morphine.  Morphine?  That's what they gave the guy in Saving Private Ryan right before he died!"), he makes everyday events his personal playground on which to display his comedic genius.  If you don't think this guy is a riot, it says nothing about him and everything about you.

Matt had never heard of him.

So we watched the video (I showed him the "emergency room" bit), and a few minutes later I noticed him checking something on his computer.  "Hey," he said.  "Brian Regan is performing in San Diego on Saturday."  A few clicks of the mouse later, I had secured tickets for me and Theresa.  Matt and his wife had other plans for the weekend, so they were unable to join us.

Theresa and I have seen Regan at the Improv a couple times, and we own two of his DVD's.  Long story short, we're fans, so I knew Theresa was going to be thrilled with my impromptu Valentine's Day plans.  Plus, we both love San Diego, so we could make a day of it.  A nice two-hour drive, maybe see a movie, have a nice dinner, and then go to the show.  I thought it would be great if I didn't tell her what we were doing, just drive down and let the day surprise her as it unfolded.  I imagined the excitement on her face as we waited outside the San Diego Civic Auditorium, trying to figure out who we were going to see.  I wouldn't say a word until Brian Regan was introduced onstage.  It would be great!

I called Theresa on the phone.

"GUESS WHAT!  I GOT US TICKETS TO SEE BRIAN REGAN IN SAN DIEGO ON SATURDAY NIGHT!"


Okay, I'm lousy at surprises.

So we drove down in the early afternoon and went to see the new Adam Sandler movie.  It's pretty funny, once you get past the fact that there's not a single believable character in it.  The premise is fairly ridiculous (they could've solved the central problem in about eight seconds), but Sandler is his usual engaging self and there's a lot of laughs.  After the movie we walked over to Horton Plaza, which is a large mall.  Theresa wanted to stop by Bath and Body Works to pick up some more lotions and hand soaps because her supply at home is dwindling.  I think she's down to about seventy lotions and a hundred and fifteen hand soaps, so it was obviously time to restock.

Next, we went to an Italian restaurant called The Merk.  I have no clue what that name means, but their food is excellent.  We got a table on the patio, I had the penne and meatballs, Theresa had baked ziti.  Good stuff.

San Diego Civic Auditorium

And then it was off to the Civic Auditorium.  I had pre-purchased the parking ticket so it was just a matter of finding the right lot.  Turned out to be a little tougher than I had anticipated.  San Diego is one of those cities that's laid out in a grid.  The east-west streets are numbered (First Street, Second Street, Third Street, Fourth Street, Fifth Street, Sixth Street, Seventh Street . . . you get the idea), and the north-south streets are lettered (A Street, B Street and so forth).  But here's the problem.  Every street is one-way, so the odd numbered streets all go east, the even numbered go west, and the north-south streets alternate as well.  So if you're trying to get to, say, the Civic Auditorium parking structure on the corner of B and Second, you've got to plan your route with plenty of time to navigate the labyrinth.

We found it eventually, it was the third parking lot we pulled into.  But as you know if you've been reading this blog for a while, whenever I have plans -- a ball game, the movies, a show -- I leave us plenty of time for such drawbacks so we still got to the auditorium with about an hour to spare.

In short, Brian Regan was fantastic, as always.  His show was almost entirely new material, including my favorite line of the night, "I think what Michael Vick did was wrong, so to support animal rights, at my house we had a few friends over for a Be Nice to Dogs pig roast."  For an encore, Brian came back onstage and took requests to reprise some of his older, and very popular routines.  He did "I Walked on the Moon" and a few others, but sadly, we didn't get to see my favorite, "Emergency Room".

But have no fear . . . here it is.  Enjoy!






d

The McRib Experiment: McRansom!

Okay, no more Mr. McNice Guy.

First, I tried to get Theresa to eat a McRib by offering her ten bucks.  She turned it down without a second's hesitation.  Undeterred, I moved on to Plan B, which involved a certificate for a half-hour massage and some really, really fine print.  The plan actually worked like a charm, as she accepted the offered massage.  However, displaying a shameful disregard of the established contract, Theresa refused to honor the microscopic "Neener-Neener-Now-You-Gotta-Eat-a-McRib" clause.

So, left with no other choice, I had her dog Newton kidnapped.

Theresa was sitting in the living room, probably thinking about what a great deal she could get on Halloween decorations for next year.  She's kind of obsessive like that.  I heard her son Doug and his girlfriend Obie come in through the front door.  I intercepted them before they could get to the living room.

"I need one of you guys to take Newton for a drive.  Just fifteen minutes or so," I said.

They knew what I was up to, so Obie volunteered.  She took Newt out to her car while Doug went upstairs and I placed a phone call to a third accomplice, my brother Bobby.

"Dude, I need your help with something," I said.  I explained my McQuest, and gave him his instructions.  This is the brother who, when he was seven, rigged a booby trap for our babysitter and then hit her in the face with a bucket of water.  He was absolutely the right guy for this assignment.

I went back upstairs and sat on the couch, waiting.  A couple minutes later, Theresa's cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Do you know where your dog is?"

"Excuse me?"

"Doooo . . . yoooooo . . . knowwwww . . . where your dog is?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Ronald McDonald.  Have you seen your dog lately?"

Theresa covered the phone and asked me and Doug, "Have you guys seen Newton?"

"He's not here?"  We pretended to look for the dog, calling his name over and over, trying not to chuckle.  Of course, he didn't respond.  He was on a pleasant drive with Obie.  Meanwhile, Theresa's panic level was rising.

"Do you have my dog? . . . WHO IS THIS!  YOU'RE NOT RONALD MCDONALD!"  Finally, she hung up on him, and helped us look for Newton.

That's when I texted her this picture:

The text was clearly sent by "CHRIS CELL".  Why this didn't clue her in to the prank, I have no idea.

"Oh my God!  Someone just texted me a picture of Newton!  He's blindfolded!  Who took this picture?!"

She ran out into the back yard, frantically calling out, "NEWTON!  NEWTON!" while Doug and I watched from the back deck.

"Think we should tell her?" he asked.

"Not just yet.  Let her sweat it out just a little longer."

She came back inside.  "He's not out here!  The gate's still locked so he couldn't have gotten out, where the hell is he?"  She went to look downstairs.

When she was out of earshot, Doug looked at me and said, "You know she's gonna be pissed, right?"

"I told her she should've just eaten the McRib when I offered her ten bucks.  This is her own fault."

"Yeah, I'm sure she's gonna see it like that."

"Okay, okay, I'll let her in on it."  I took out my phone and texted her this:

From downstairs, I heard her phone beep, followed by an ominous silence.

And then the yelling started.

"YOU KIDNAPPED NEWTON TO GET ME TO EAT A FUCKING MCRIB?!  WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!"  She stormed back upstairs and gave me a look that would cause ravenous wolves to flee in terror and woodchucks to burst into flame.

"If I tell you, will you eat one?"  I asked.

"No!"

"Fine, then I don't know where he is.  He probably ran away and got hit by a truck."

"You're a jerk.  Where is he?"

"Eat the McRib?"

"Yeah, okay, fine, where's my dog?"

Doug called Obie who returned moments later with Newton who, as usual, hadn't the foggiest clue what was going on.

Theresa eventually calmed down, and she started putting it all together.  "Who was it that called me?" she asked.

"That was Bobby."

She grabbed her phone, and called his number.  Suffice it to say, someone's going to be short one Christmas present this year.

Victorious, I drove to McDonald's to get a McRib.  As a minor concession, I agreed to let Theresa special order it, no pickles or onions.  By the time I got home, though, she had reconsidered the whole thing.

"Forget it, I'm not eating one."

A rather boisterous argument ensued, Doug and I taking the "you gotta eat one, you promised" point of view, Theresa adamantly in the "oh no I don't, either" camp.  Obie was keeping out of it, as she was already in enough trouble with Theresa and our other dog Munson, who was pissed off that she didn't take him for a ride in the car.

"Okay, okay," Theresa finally agreed.  "I'll take ONE bite, and then you have to eat some seaweed."

"That wasn't part of the deal," I said.  Seaweed is friggin' disgusting.  Theresa eats it all the time, wrapped around rice and fish into a "moosabee" or something like that.  Truly, they're gross.

"Do you want me to eat the McRib or not?"

Remembering the original goal, I said, "Fine.  But you're eating the McRib first."

She was a bit reluctant at first:

She tried to get away with a couple microscopic nibbles, but Doug and I weren't about to let her get away with it.  "You gotta at least take a full bite, meat and bun," I said.  So she did.

I kept my end of the bargain by choking down a bit of seaweed.  In case you're wondering, it tastes just like fish food smells, if that makes any sense. 

Of course, we still had about 90% of a McRib left uneaten.  Theresa sure wasn't going to finish it off, Doug and I both passed, and Obie was still sitting silently on the couch waiting for the whole ordeal to blow over.  In the end, there was only one reasonable thing to do . . .

It was only fair.  Newton had gone through a pretty traumatic experience.

It may have taken a few weeks of playing Sam-I-Am -- offering bribes, giving a massage, and finally stooping to doggie abduction -- but as promised, I got Theresa to eat (or at least take a bite of ) a McRib sandwich.

Mission McComplished.


d

The McRib Experiment: The Fine Print

In my continuing quest to persuade my fiance Theresa to eat a McRib, I've now had to resort to, in the words of former President George W. Bush, some trickeration.  Previously, Theresa turned down my offer of ten dollars (eighty-seven cents Canadian) to partake of the tasty McSandwich so I was forced to develop Plan B, which went something like this:

Completely out of the blue, I presented Theresa with a certificate for a free "expectation free" massage, and when I say "expectation free," I trust that all of you in committed relationships will know precisely what I'm talking about.  It was just going to be a massage.  That's all. 

So a few nights ago, after a long day's work, Theresa decided to redeem her certificate.  "This is really nice," she said.  "What did I do to deserve this?"

"What did you do?  Nothing.  I just know you've been working hard, so I thought I'd help you relax," I said, stifling a sinister chuckle.  "Just lie down and let me take it from there."

So she received her half-hour massage.  All humility aside, I think I did a pretty good job.

"That was nice," said Theresa.  "I feel so spoiled."

"Well, you know, you did have the certificate.  When something's written out like that, you're kind of obligated to follow through, right?"

"That's right, and I appreciate it."

The trap, my friends, had been set.

The next day, she called me at work.  "I just wanted to thank you again for pampering me last night.  It was very thoughtful of you."

"Yeah, well, you did read the fine print, right?"

Blurry I know, but you get the idea.

I forgot to tell you earlier, at the very bottom of the certificate, I included a line of very small print, and I do mean very small.  I think I set the point size at six.  Five, perhaps.  Also, I changed the font color from standard black to a pale gray, not too much different than the color of the paper the certificate was printed on.

 But it was there so it counts, right?  Who's with me on this?

"The fine print?  What are you talking about?"

"The fine print on the certificate.  Wanna know what it said?"

"I'm not eating a fucking McRib."

"Au contraire," I said, because whenever possible I like to work a little French into the conversation.  "According to the certificate, which is now valid because you accepted the promised massage, the bearer must consume one McRib sandwich."

"Dammit," said Theresa, "I should've known there was a catch.  And here I've been thinking how wonderful you are for taking care of me just because you wanted to.  But you didn't really want to, did you?  It was all part of your plan to make me eat a stupid McRib."

"Uh, well, no," I said, trying desperately to dig myself out of this one, "I wanted to give you a massage because, like I said, you've been working hard.  But then I thought I'd, you know, throw in the thing about the McRib."

"You're mean."

So once again, my dog Munson enjoyed a McRib dinner.  And when I went out in our back yard the next day, I learned something kind of interesting.  Without putting too fine a point on it, it seems that the canine digestive system does not adequately process chopped onions.

Now it's on to Plan C.  I don't know what that is yet, exactly, but I'll come up with something.


TO BE CONTINUED . . .


d

Planes, Shuttles, and Busted Air Conditioners

The classic John Hughes film "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles" details the travel nightmares of Neil Page and Del Griffith, who suffer a series of mishaps while trying to get from New York to Chicago. Their situation was at times frustrating, infuriating, desperate, and after all was said and done, hilarious. Maybe you've had a few such excursions yourself. And although I did not end up with my ass looking "like a big Whopper" or have to hitch a ride to Stubbville in one degree weather with a hick named Owen, my trip to New York in the summer of 2008 would nonetheless qualify, to put it politely, as "obstacle-ridden".

Theresa and I had been planning our NYC vacation for several months. I grew up in Jersey, so I'd obviously been to New York on many occasions, but it was to be T's first visit to the City that Never Sleeps But Frequently Takes a Dump. And since I'm a die-hard Yankee fan and it was the last season for Yankee Stadium, the timing was perfect.

We organized our trip well in advance, deciding to fly out of Las Vegas rather than Los Angeles to save a few bucks, booked our hotel and double checked our reservations, bought our Yankee tickets and planned other activities to enjoy. We had our itinerary all set, no detail overlooked, and we were ready to go.

"What could possibly go wrong?" he asks foreshadowingly.

Our flight was scheduled to leave McCarran Airport in Vegas at 7:25 in the morning. I like to give myself plenty of time when I travel, so we arrived at check-in at 6:00. We checked the "Departing Flights" board and, lo and behold, there was the first sign of trouble. Our flight was listed as "delayed". Okay, no biggie, we were scheduled to arrive at JFK at about 3:00, flying non-stop, so another hour or two wouldn't be that big a deal. When we went to check our luggage, though, we saw a sign taped to the roped-off check-in line that said "Flight 261 passengers only".

Yeah, that was our flight number.

I'm not going to reveal the airline so as not to besmirch their stellar reputation, but let's just say it rhymes with "Schlamerican".

As we got closer to the front of the line, we overheard the lady at the counter tell a passenger, "We've booked you on a 10:00 flight that stops over in Atlanta, and it'll get you to JFK by 10PM."

Booked him on a flight?  This was sounding less like "delayed" and more like "cancelled".

When it was our turn, we learned that yes indeed, Flight 261 was cancelled due to "routine maintenance." Okay, I'm no airplane mechanic so I could easily be wrong on this, but wouldn't it make more sense to schedule "routine maintenance" for a time when, I don't know, the plane wasn't supposed to be taking passengers somewhere?"  We'd been re-booked on a different flight so now instead of leaving McCarran at 7:25 and flying non-stop to JFK and arriving at 3:00, we were now leaving at 11:00, stopping over in Dallas, and arriving at JFK at 9:30. That killed our dinner plans in the city, but we'd still have a little time to get settled.

We had breakfast (I had a McCarran McMuffin, which wouldn't be worth mentioning except for the fact that this turned out to be my last meal for about 16 hours), found our gate, and relaxed with a couple magazines. All right. At least we got the travel snafu out of the way early.

Little did Theresa and I know, this was only the beginning.

We arrived in Dallas without incident, and had about 45 minutes to kill before our connecting flight was scheduled to leave. T picked up a couple cheeseburgers at the airport McDonalds, but I wasn't that hungry so I decided to wait till we got to New York. This was not a great decision.  Five minutes before we were supposed to board, the gate attendant announced that our flight was being delayed about an hour. But wait, that's not all. Since they needed the gate for another flight, we were going to board the plane, taxi out to the tarmac, and wait there until it was time to take off.

So now we were sitting in a metal tube in 104 degree Texas heat with the engines (and therefore, the air conditioning) shut off to conserve fuel. Being wrapped in a blanket and rammed up the ass of a feverish llama would've been only slightly less comfortable.

I'm assuming.

We finally arrived at JFK at about 11:00 PM. We went down to baggage claim frustrated, exhausted, and in my case starving. I said to T, "You know that our luggage is somewhere in Manitoba right now, don't you?" Well, our luggage wasn't in Manitoba, actually our bags were the first ones down the chute, (What? Something went right? There must be some mistake!) so now all we had to do was catch our shuttle to the hotel and this day from hell would be over.

Ninety minutes and three phone calls later, the van from Steaming Pile o' Shuttle arrived.

Traffic leaving JFK was pretty much a fustercluck, so we arrived at our hotel at about 2:00 AM. I was absolutely famished, so we went up to the room to put our luggage away so we could go eat. When we got to the room, the thermostat read 92 degrees. Okay, we figured, the room had probably been vacant for a few days so if we crank up the AC and go grab something to eat, when we get back it'll be all nice and cool.

We walked across the street to the Carnegie Deli, and I had a roast beef sandwich that, I kid you not, was the size of a bowling ball. It was T's first experience in New York, so the atmosphere was perfect, if not our dispositions. We boxed up the substantial leftovers and headed back to the hotel. When we got back to the room, the thermostat now read 93 degrees. Beautiful.

I called the front desk, and asked if, you know, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could they maybe send up a guy to keep the bed linens from bursting into flame.  I mean, the room wasn't merely hot, it was equatorial. About ten minutes later there was a knock on our door, and we welcomed Gustav the Repairman, he of limited English skills. After taking apart the unit, he managed to form the sentence "Ees broken, get new part in zee mornink."

After about four hours of sweat-soaked semi-sleep (Theresa told me she actually had a dream that she was melting), I went back to the front desk and said to the hotel manager, "Look. We had a miserable night. We're going out for a while today, and when we get back at about four o'clock, we'll need for the air to be fixed or to have our room changed. Will that work?"

The nice lady assured me that, yes, that would be fine. We went sight-seeing, had a nice lunch (is there anything better than New York pizza? I submit that there is NOT!), and when we returned to the hotel, it was nice and cool.  Three cheers for Gustav.

Thankfully, that was the last of the problems. The Yanks thoroughly abused the Twins on both nights we were there, we saw Wicked on Broadway, had dinner at the famous Elaine's (where they seemed to be hosting the Corleone family reunion) and in general had a wonderful time. Once we got that first day behind us, it was smooth sailing.

Until the trip home, when our flight was delayed three hours.

But I did use that extra time to buy a really nice set of shower curtain rings from a chatty fat guy.


d

The McRib Experiment: The Bribe

Several days ago, my fiance Theresa assured me that there was, and I quote, "No way you can get me to eat a McRib."  Of course, I took this as a challenge, so now I'm going to do everything in my power to get her to partake of the McDonald's "Limited Time Only" delicacy.  We're calling it, "The McRib Experiment".

My first attempt took place on the evening of November 9th.  I stopped by the local Mickey D's on my way home from work and ordered the McRib combo.  Immediately, there was a problem.

"I'm sorry, but we're out of McRib buns," said the drive-through McPloyee.

"You've gotta be freakin' kiddin' me.  You've got these things for six weeks and you're already out of buns?"

"We're expecting some more in about fifteen minutes if you want to wait.  Or we could put it on one of our honey baked rolls."

"Yeah, fine, do that." I said.  It's mystery meat slathered in fake barbecue sauce.  How much worse could a substitute bun make it?

When I got home, Theresa was sitting in the living room.  "Hi, Honey," I said.  "I got you something to eat.  Take a look."  I held up the McDonald's bag.

"I'm not eating a McRib," she said.

"Okay, here's the deal.  I'll give you ten bucks right now to eat it."  Suddenly I started to feel a little bit like Sam-I-Am.  If she turned down the money, maybe I could get her to eat one in a box.  Or with a fox.  Or in a house.  Or with a mouse.

I took a ten dollar bill from my wallet and set it along side the McRib.

"No way," said Theresa.  "Look at that crap, it's disgusting."

Her son Doug came over.  "Can I have the ten bucks if I eat it?"

"No.  It's for your mom.  Besides, for ten bucks, you'd eat your own shoe."

"What's your point?" asked Doug.

"Yeah, well, forget it."  I turned to Theresa.  "Well, there it is, all yours."

"I told you I'm not eating that," said Theresa.

"You sure?  Ten dollars . . . Meal, or No Meal?" I asked, dramatically.

"Uh, no meal."

Since I'm not going to go above a ten-spot for the bribery phase, I guess it's time to move on to Plan B.  And don't worry, there is most definitely a Plan B.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the McRib didn't go to waste . . .

Of course, the fact that Munson went out in the back yard and immediately yakked all over the place is only going to make my mission more difficult.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .



d

The McRib Experiment: Prologue

On Sunday night, Theresa and I were watching the Green Bay Packers beat the living crap out of the East Texas Boys' Choir (sometimes known as the "Dallas Cowboys") when a McDonald's commercial came on.  Apparently, the good folks at Mickey D's are bringing back the McRib, without question the most controversial food item of our time.

In layman's terms, the McRib sandwich is a slab of boneless "pork" slathered in "barbecue sauce", garnished with chopped onions and sliced pickles, and served on an over-sized dinner roll.  The key feature here is that the "meat" is shaped like a rack of ribs, only there are no bones.

Brilliant, right?

When the McRib was originally introduced in 1981, it took the nation by storm.  Okay, to be honest, it took the nation by mostly cloudy skies with a chance of showers, but still, they were a new McDonald's menu item and as such, several brave individuals tried one.  I myself was a big McRib fan, and partook of the McGoodness on many occasions only to be disappointed when they were discontinued in 1985.  Since then, the McRib has made a few "limited time only" appearances, the most recent of which began on November 2nd and runs through December 5th.

Why am I telling you this?  I'll explain.

After watching the McRib commercial during the Packers - Boys' Choir game, Theresa said, "The McRib is back?  Those things are disgusting.  I've never had one in my life."

"Well, then how do you know it's disgusting?"

"Just look at it."

"Yeah, it's a rack of ribs on a bun, I've had 'em before.  They're actually pretty tasty."

"Pickles and onions, on fake meat?  No thanks.  There's no way you could get me to eat that crap."

I'm not one to pass up a challenge like that, so I've now got about five weeks to bribe, threaten, coerce, trick, or manipulate Theresa into partaking of a delectable McRib sandwich.  Now, understand that I'm not going to be ridiculous about it.  I'm sure that if I said, "Hey, Theresa, here's five hundred bucks.  Eat this McRib and it's yours," she'd down that sucker in nothing flat.  But I don't think any reasonable person would call me the winner in that particular scenario.

So the key here is for me to get her to eat the McRib for as little compensation as possible.   Sort of a "Meal or No Meal" type thing.  At least, it's going to start out that way.  But if she can't be bought or bribed, I may have to resort to trickery.

We'll see how it goes.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .




d

Occam's Garage Door

There are a lot of things in life that you just can't count on.  Weather forecasts are rarely more than semi-educated guesses, the cable guy can never seem to arrive quite within his "8 AM to noon" time frame, and air travel has become so completely unreliable that American Airlines should probably just start using "sometime Monday afternoon" as an official departure time.

There's not a whole lot left in this world that is 100% dependable, but even at my most cynical, I never thought I'd lose faith in the little button that opens my garage door.  But last night it let me down.  It let me down hard.

Theresa and I were all ready to leave to go see the new Bruce Willis flick, but when I pressed the garage door button on the wall . . . nothing happened.   This left me perplexed, because when I got home from work just a couple hours earlier I'd opened the door with my remote and then closed it when I got inside.  That whole process went off without a hitch.  But now?  The garage door responded like the willie of a Viagra-less octogenarian judging an ugly contest.

We were running late for the movie, though, so we pulled the red cord to open the garage door manually.  I backed the car out of the garage and, just for the hell of it, pressed the button on my remote.  Curiously, the door shut as usual.

When we got home a couple hours later, we set out to fix the problem.  I pressed the garage door button just in case a band of repair elves had visited while we were gone.  None had, so once again I opened the door manually and pressed the button.  The door went down.  Okay, so there was nothing wrong with the open/close mechanism or the button itself.  There was obviously another explanation.

Many years ago, when I lived in a different house, I had dealt with the opposite problem -- the garage door opened just fine, but it wouldn't close.  I noticed this only occurred when I was leaving for work in the morning; when I got home at night, everything was fine.  After a few months of utter befuddlement, I finally figured out that in the mornings the sun would shine directly into the LED sensor that keeps garage doors from closing on pets or small children.  I fixed that particular problem with a two-inch length of PVC pipe.

Which was absolutely no help to me now.

It's important to remind you at this point that when it comes to handyman-type activities, my skills lie somewhere between "non-existent" and "counter-productive."  So after fiddling with various parts of the garage door opener for several minutes, I decided to go online to see if I could find some tips.  I Googled "my friggin' garage door will close but won't open" and found about twenty-five possible solutions.  I adjusted the "force level," oiled the runners, aligned the sensors, I even tried Bugs Bunny's "Iggity aggity oop, ah ah" dance and said "Open sesame."

Nothing worked.

"What are you guys doing?"

It was Doug, Theresa's twenty-year-old son.  We explained the predicament, and he said, "I'll take care of it, you guys go on inside." 

Doug's pretty good at fixing things, especially compared to me.

Forty-five seconds later, I heard the garage door opening.  And closing.  And opening.  And closing.  Theresa and I went out to the garage.

"Hey!" said Theresa.  "You fixed it!"

"Yeah, it was really complicated, too," said Doug.

"What was the problem?" I asked.

"Come here and take a look at the button on the wall," said Doug.  I looked where he was pointing.  "See this switch on top?  That's called the lock/unlock switch.  When it's in the locked position, the door won't open.  It's so no one can clone your remote and break into the house.  Using my amazingly brilliant repair skills, I flipped the switch into the unlocked position, and the door opened."

Doug can be a bit of a smart-ass.

Apparently, the last time I'd shut the door from the inside, I had accidentally flipped the switch to "lock".

Yes, I know.  I'm lame.


d

Waking Up Just Got a Whole Lot Tougher

If shopping were an Olympic sport, my fiance Theresa would be pictured on a Wheaties box holding about seven gold medals and her Visa card.  It's not so much that she spends an inordinate amount of money, she's actually pretty good at finding bargains and doesn't usually go overboard.  What I have a slight issue with, though, is her ability to find (and purchase) items that have no purpose anywhere in the world, much less in our home.  We have a ceramic rooster, for example, and about seventeen small vases that each contain a bouquet of sticks (she told me what those are actually called, but I don't remember and I don't really care anyway).  And don't even get me started on the Halloween decorations.  If it's got a pumpkin or a skull on it, she'll buy it.  Even if it's a total piece of crap like this:

Now, in the spirit of fairness, Theresa could very easily accuse me of the same thing.  I have an office in our home that is pretty much stuffed to the ceiling with autographed baseballs, signed bats, framed jerseys, photographs, all sorts of sports artifacts.  I'm sure Theresa would be quick to say that my collection of memorabilia is a useless waste of space.

She'd be wrong, of course, but I'm willing to acknowledge a different point of view.

But despite her tendency to embrace the worthless, every once in a while Theresa will bring home (or the UPS guy will drop off on the porch) something that makes all the ceramic roosters and votive candles worthwhile.

Which brings us to the Memory Foam Mattress.

A couple weeks ago, Theresa called me at work with this earth-shattering news:

"Hey!  The UPS guy just dropped off our new mattress!" she said.

"We're getting a new mattress?  Was something wrong with the old one?"

"You don't understand.  This is a Memory Foam Mattress!"

"Which is?"

"Oh, you'll see when you get home."

"Can't wait."

When I got home that afternoon, I lugged the 84-pound box of mattress up to our bedroom.  We opened it up and unrolled the four-inch thick Memory Foam Mattress on top of our existing mattress.  It looked like a giant pound cake, and when you press your hand on it, the hand print stays there for a few seconds.  And that wasn't the only quirk.

"It smells like paint," I said.

"Yeah, the website said that'll go away."

"Awesome."

We remade the bed.  It looked about the same as it had with the old mattress except, you know, it was four inches thicker.  I had no idea what the big deal was.

And then I laid down on it.

If God had his choice of bedding (and one would have to assume that He does), there is no doubt in my mind that this is the mattress the Almighty would choose.  When you lie down on the Memory Foam Mattress, the spongy foam welcomes and absorbs you.  You're not so much lying on it, you're lying in it.

Which now presents me with a problem that I have to deal with every morning.  I forgot to mention that the purchase of the mattress included a pair of Memory Foam Pillows which are just as comfy-cozy, and between the pillow and the mattress, they simply won't let me get out of bed in the morning.  My alarm goes off, and immediately Pillow and Mattress try to seduce me into going back to sleep: 

"Chris, just ignore that obnoxious alarm," says Pillow.  "Just let your head sink back into my squishy softness."

"But I have to go to work," I reply.

"Ah, just call in sick," says Mattress.  "Wouldn't you rather sleep till noon?  We're right here with you, to make sure you're nice and comfortable."

"Well, I do have some sick leave saved up . . . "

"That's the spirit," chimes in Blanket.

"Good for you," says Pillow.  "Just shut off the ol' alarm, and you'll be back in Dreamland in no time."

This is what I've been dealing with every morning for the past two weeks.  I really should get back to work soon.

Maybe next time Theresa's at Target, she can pick me up a better alarm clock.


d

Cute or Crap?

After the last time I criticized my fiance Theresa, when I got on her case about being overly picky with the bagels and ice and how she always finds "one more thing" for us to do while we're out and about, I promised myself that I'd leave her alone for a while.  This was partly because I don't want to come across as being a mean-spirited jerk, but if we're going to be completely honest, I'm really tired of sleeping on the sofa.  So believe me when I tell you I really didn't plan on picking on her anytime soon.

But then she went and did something that makes it absolutely impossible for me not to share it with you, the outside world.

I need to start by saying that of all the holidays on the calendar, Halloween is the one Theresa looks forward to the most.  She loves Christmas, of course, and every Easter she always fills our pantry with a stunning array of Peeps, but nothing compares to her pathological obsession with Halloween.  Every year, she buys a few more creepy accessories and decorations for the house.  Fake spider webs for the front porch, plastic pumpkins, glow-in-the-dark skeletons, candy bowls with a bony hand sticking up from the bottom -- you name it, we have it.

I'm not complaining, exactly.  Some of the stuff is pretty cool, especially the electronic Frankenstein that talks and removes its own head.  And once we get all the decorations in place, our house could give Disneyland's Haunted Mansion a run for its money.  Trick or treaters are always impressed, and it's kind of fun to see the little ones approach our front door with trepidation, like they're thinking "man, I don't know if a fun-size Snickers bar is worth wetting my Spiderman costume for."

None of that, however, makes up for the ridiculous crap Theresa bought for the house the other night.

We were shopping at Vons Supermarket for a few random groceries when Theresa noticed the Halloween supplies and decorations on display.  I should mention at this point that it was Labor Day.  That's right, almost two complete months until Halloween, and the goodies are already out for purchase.  I don't know ANYONE who shops for Halloween stuff this early.

Okay, I take that back.  I know ONE person.

I'm convinced that Theresa will buy absolutely anything that has a pumpkin or a skull on it.  Take for example this bizarre statue that now graces our living room.

Where do I even begin?  It looks like a cross between Bozo the Clown and the Great Pumpkin.  And what the hell is he holding in his hand?  A weird little parasol?  Candy Corn on a Stick?  I have no friggin' idea.  But hey, it's a PUMPKIN!  So it's ours.

Not even our dog Newton is safe from Theresa's Halloween addiction.  Look what she did to him.

I think Newt should get in touch with PETA, because this is CERTAINLY not an ethical way to treat an animal.  He looks like he could star in an all-canine production of The Pirates of Penzance. 

But I've saved the worst for last.  Of all the things Theresa has "had to have" for Halloween, this next piece of crap is by far the most ridiculous. 

That's right, folks, it's a glittery cupcake with a doll's head popping out the top.  At least, I think it's a doll.  It sort of looks like Jack Skellington from "A Nightmare Before Christmas," but it's more like something you'd find on the Island of Misfit Toys.  It's just spooky, and not in a good way.  And it was SIXTEEN DOLLARS!  You know how many Kit Kats that could buy?

I tried to talk her out of it.  Clearly, this was a factory reject that some conniving retailer slapped a pumpkin and the word "BOO" on to pass off as a Halloween decoration.  "Seriously," I said, "why the hell do we need that for our house?"

"It's unique."

"Granted, but it's ridiculous.  It's a cupcake.  With a head popping out."

"I know, I love it!"

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in my effort to keep this . . . thing . . . out of our house.  But we still don't see eye to eye on it, not even close.  So Theresa and I have agreed to let you, dear Knucklehead readers, be the judges.  Take a look once again at the Doll in a Cupcake.  What do YOU think? 

Is it cute?  Or is it crap?


d

Bagels and Ice

It was 9:00 on Sunday morning.  I was in that sleep-purgatory between "totally unconscious" and "groggy and incoherent" when Theresa nudged me (and by "nudged" I of course mean blasted me in the ribcage with a Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson-approved People's Elbow).  "I think you should get me breakfast," she said, batting her eyes sweetly.

"I should, huh?"

"Yes.  You have two choices."

"Is one of the choices going back to sleep and dealing with your breakfast in an hour?"  I asked hopefully.

"No." 

"Didn't think so.  What do you want?"

"Well, you can go to Vons and get some cheese bagels or if you don't want to get out of the car, just run through a drive through and get Egg McMuffins and hash browns or something."

"All right, bagels sound good actually."

"Oh, and one more thing  . . . "

Whenever Theresa sends me on an errand, no matter how small, it almost always includes a "one more thing" addendum.  For example, "Chris, we need to go pick up the mail and oh, there's one more thing, we should probably go to Target."  Never mind that Target is nowhere near the post office, and Theresa's trips to Target are more exhausting and complex than most Arctic expeditions.  The "one more thing" addendum has no such restrictions, nor is it limited to only ONE more thing.  In our world, therefore, it's not uncommon for a ten-minute milk run to include a dozen one-more-things and end up killing most of a weekend.

"Oh, one more thing, while you're there you can pick up a bag of ice for tonight." In our household, we normally drink our sodas right from the can.  But we were having friends over for dinner and we always assume that our guests (as well as the rest of Western civilization) will be a bit more sophisticated than we are.  Thus, the ice.

So I went to Vons Supermarket and headed first to the bakery section.  The bagels were packaged neatly in sleeves of six, so I grabbed a sleeve of cheddar and a sleeve of cheddar-jalapeno (my favorite) and went off in search of the ice.

That's when the trouble started.

We only needed a small bag of ice cubes, the five-pounder.  All I could find, though, were the 20-pound bags, the five-pound blocks, and a couple five-pound bags of "lime-flavored" ice cubes.  So here were my options:

1. Buy the lime ice cubes and then play dumb when everyone asked "Why does my diet Dr. Pepper taste weird?"

2. Buy the ice block and spend a couple hours chipping the hell out of it with an ice pick, which I do not own in the first place.

3. Go with the 20-pound bag and hope it fit in our freezer, or divvy up the ice in to Ziploc bags.

I went with the 20-pounder. 

I should mention at this point that I completely realized this was going to be far too much ice.  In a last-ditch effort to find the right size bag, I did something that I normally would never consider: I asked a store employee for assistance.

"Excuse me, Chuck?"  The checker's name was Chuck.  It said so right there on his name tag.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a smaller bag of ice somewhere, would you?  I'm just hosting a small dinner gathering, not building an igloo."

"Actually, no.  We just changed over to a new ice company, and we're not getting the smaller bags until next week."

Ice company?  I've never thought about that.  Imagine . . . 

What do you do?  

I work for the Mr. Chill Ice Company.  

Really?  What's your job there?  

I'm in the water distribution department.  

What does that entail?  

I pour water into trays.

And then what?

Then the pre-freeze transport department takes the trays to the freezer guys.

That has to be the most pressure-free job on the planet.  Unless the freezers break. 

I thanked Chuck for his assistance, paid for the ice and the bagels, and headed home. 

Theresa was in the kitchen when I arrived.  "Jeez, did you get enough ice?  There's no way that's going to fit in the freezer."

I told her the story, from lime-flavored ice cubes to Chuck.  And then I opened the freezer and tried to squeeze the bag of ice in.  Surprisingly, it sort of fit.  We only had to transfer a couple of Ziploc bags worth of cubes.

And then she saw the bagels.

"They didn't have any fresh ones?" Theresa asked, with an obvious look of disappointment on her face.  Now, had I been thinking quickly, I would have seen the trouble ahead and said no, they were all out of fresh bagels.  But I'm not that smart.

"What do you mean, fresh ones?"

"Well, the fresh bagels are right there in the display and you put them in paper bags.  The ones that are pre-wrapped in plastic -- like these -- are usually a day old.  Did they have any in the display?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, and?"

"And I apparently screwed up by getting the conveniently pre-wrapped ones?"

"Yes you did.  I guess that's the last time I send you to the store for something."

But I think we all know that's a lie.  There's always one more thing.


d

Hoarders: The Shampoo Edition

As you may recall, a few days ago I wrote about the oppression and disrespect that bald men (or, as we prefer to be called, "Shiny-Americans") have been putting up with for years.  We hear it from our friends and co-workers, we get ridiculed out in public, and even the mainstream media has gotten into the act with hairist caricatures like Mr. Clean.  I thought I'd gotten all that "anti-bald" frustration out of my system, but apparently not, because this morning I was the target of prejudice right in my own home.

I was getting dressed when Theresa called to me from the shower.  "Chris, can you go out to the hall cabinet and get me a new bottle of hair conditioner?"

First of all, what the hell is "hair conditioner"?  I vaguely remember shampoo, as I used it regularly until it became unnecessary in the mid-90's.  But more importantly here, what about my goddamn feelings?  Would you send a legless man down to Footlocker to pick you out a nice new pair of Air Jordans?  I doubt it.  When I opened the cabinet, though, I forgot all about Theresa's insensitivity because this is what I saw:

I mean, holy freaking crap, what is all that stuff?  Shampoo, hand soap, body gel, body wash (which is apparently not the same thing as body gel), air fresheners, hand lotion, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.  My God, she's a hoarder!  There's so much junk in there that if disaster were to strike leaving us trapped in our home, and assuming that we still had running water, Theresa's hair would be able to maintain its luster and bounce until approximately the year 2028.

Even so, I couldn't find the friggin' hair conditioner anywhere.  Oh, and please be advised that the large bottle of white stuff in the very front of the picture is NOT conditioner, it's shampoo.  That's important later on in the story.

"What's taking you so long out there?" hollered Theresa from the shower.

"I'm navigating my way through the Valley of the Lotions, give me a second!"

After knocking over a half-dozen squirters of hand soap and a couple hair sprays, I was able to locate a bottle of Alberto VO5 grapefruit mandarin splash Vitaburst volumizing conditioner which, according to the bottle, is bursting with vitamins B, C, and E.  I'm not making that up, it actually says, "bursting with vitamins B, C, and E."  The bottle also says "new", but given the ridiculous amount of shit Theresa has in the cabinet, this bottle may very well have been purchased in 1993.

I took the bottle to Theresa.  "You find it?"

"Yeah, all the way in the friggin' back."  We then engaged in the conversation that inspired this rant.

She then went to the cabinet and said, "Look, there's a bottle of conditioner right here in the front, I don't know how you missed it."  This was an attempt to either make me feel stupid or make herself feel better about the fact that she basically runs a shampoo museum.

"Let me see that," I said.

She handed me the bottle, a smug look upon her face.

I read the label.  Suave coconut shampoo.

"Look here," I said triumphantly.  "SHAMPOO!"

"Oh," she said.

Damn right, "oh".  Somebody got sham-punked.


d

Will Power Didn't Stand a Chance

It's summertime once again, and as usual I'm trying to drop a few pounds so I look decent at the beach.  Not that I ever go to the beach, but I think you understand what I'm trying to say.  To be clear about this, and admittedly there may be an element of denial in play here, I do not consider myself to be a "fat person."  As I've said before, I am still comfortably on the "bald guy" side of the "fat guy/bald guy scale."  For those of you unfamiliar with this system, here's how it works.  If I were sitting at Starbucks drinking my Tazo Chai Creme Frapuccino and you happened to glance my way, your initial thought would be, "Hey, look at that bald guy over there."   Therefore, I am a bald guy who could stand to lose a few pounds.  If your first thought was, "Hey, check out that fat tub of goo," well, that's another story entirely.

Anyway, in my ongoing effort to remain on the "bald guy" side of the equation, I have started yet another diet.  My fiance Theresa has decided to join me in this endeavor.  So the other morning, she asked me the simple question, "What are you having for lunch?"

"I dunno, probably yogurt and maybe some tuna," I said.

"Oh."

"What do you mean, 'oh'?"

"Well, we need to go to the grocery store to pick up dog food so I thought maybe we could stop somewhere for lunch."

"Okay," I said.  "How about Subway?"  A happy medium, I thought.  Filling, tasty, somewhat within the limits of my diet.

"Sure, I guess."

So we went to the market and bought the dog food.  On the way back to the car, Theresa noticed a Baskin Robbins in the same shopping center.

"Hey, I've been wanting to try out that Baseball Nut Sundae," she said.

Let me explain something real quick.  Dieting is not all that difficult for me.  I can resist temptation.  However, when Major Temptation joins forces with Master Sergeant Theresa, well, that's more than I can handle.  It's impossible to fight the Battle of the Bulge on two fronts.

"Fine," I said.  "Let's go get some ice cream.  But if that Baseball Nut Sundae comes in a protective cup, I'm outta there."

"You sure you don't mind putting off the diet another day?" she asked.  After all that, it's now my decision.

"Yeah, why the hell not?"

So we had the sundaes.  Still, if we stayed on our diet the rest of the day and did an extra session at the gym, it'd probably be fine.  We got in the car headed over to Subway.

"Oooh, look," said Theresa.  "Let's go to Sonic Burgers!"

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, doesn't that sound great?"

Anything you say, Sergeant.  Private Spineless reporting for duty.

I pulled into the Sonic drive-thru and ordered our meals.  She got the burger and Tater Tots, I got the double cheeseburger and Tater Tots.  Jenny Craig, kiss my fat ass.

Speaking of Jenny Craig, I forgot to mention that just last week Theresa spent a not insignificant amount of money on Jenny Craig food.  Packages of granola bars, low-calorie meals, and healthy desserts gathered dust in our pantry while Theresa and I stuffed our faces with burgers and ice cream.  But I digress.

As we were in the drive-thru waiting to pay, Theresa said to me, "Hey, you've got a weird pocket of fat right there."

Now, I was looking out the window so I didn't know what specific "pocket of fat" she was looking at.  Sadly, there were a couple different possibilities.  Still, after basically brow-beating me into the ice cream and burgers, I was in no mood to hear about my excess blubber.

"You didn't just say that," I replied.

"Maybe I didn't say it exactly the right way."

"Oh, no, it's fine.  How could anyone possibly misconstrue the phrase 'weird-looking pocket of fat'?  And what pocket of fat, if I may ask, are you referring to?"

"Right there, on your hand.  Look."

Apparently, she thought that the fleshy part of my hand between my thumb and index finger could stand to drop a couple pounds.  I didn't react well.

"Let me get this straight," I said, voice rising slightly.  "I wanted to have yogurt for lunch.  Then I compromised and agreed we'd go to Subway.  THEN you talked me into ice cream and THEN you wanted to come here to Sonic.  And now you have the nerve to say my fucking hands are too fat!?  Well, excuse me, maybe I can watch infomercials tonight and see if Suzanne Somers is selling the Thumb-Master or something so I can slim them down a bit!"  I snatched my change from the hand of a completely innocent and unsuspecting cashier.  Great, now I'm a fat asshole.

Theresa was somewhat taken aback by my outrage.  "Maybe it's just muscle.  Yes, I'm sure that's what it is, muscle.  You're so strong."

"Yeah, shut up and finish your Tater Tots."



s

Note From Me, Who Is Newton

Hello, kind humans who have no fur.  It is me, the dog who is Newton.  You may wonder how I am able to write on computer.  I will explain.

Theresa, who is mom, has taken care of me since I was a puppy.  She is nice.  She gives me food, lets me sleep under warm covers, and most of all does not talk scary to me or poke me with a metal stick if I happen to make minor mistake, like some big bald human I could mention.  Mom, who is Theresa, showed me how to hack into this website so I, who is Newton, can respond to a very mean letter.  My typing is slow because I have to use a pencil which I am chewing in my mouth and will probably get yelled at for later.

The bald human at my house, who is Chris, wrote to me telling me all the reasons he thinks that I, who is Newton, am a bad dog.  Let me first say that dogs, who are cute and friendly, have feelings that are hurt by words like "Flea-face" and "mutt" and "pathetic."  We much prefer humans to say things like "good dog" and "come here, boy" and "here is another yummy Tater Tot for you, Newton."  When Theresa, who is mom, read me all the mean words the bald human wrote, I went to my soft bed and curled up with Fuzzy Duck until I felt better.  Well, first I went into the bald human's closet which he carelessly left open and I made peepee on his shoes again, but then the soft bed and Fuzzy Duck and the feeling better.

In my house there is another dog, who is Munson and hogs all the toys (except Fuzzy Duck who I hide in secret spot).  Munson is the bald human's favorite dog, and gets more than his fair share of the Tater Tots, bacon, and Cheez-Its.  I only get a treat if one falls to the floor by mistake and I out-quick Munson to it.  I usually do, because Munson has wide butt and is sort of slow.  Otherwise, the bald human ignores me even when I shake pitifully and look cute, which is always.  Munson is favorite because he does whatever the bald human says.  Get off the bed, Munson.  Go outside, Munson.  Come here, Munson.  Human says, Munson does.

Munson is puppy-whipped.

So anyway, bald human is mad because I, who is Newton, sleep on his pillow, sometimes accidentally-on-purpose make peepee on his stuff, and go exploring the neighborhood because the yard is easy to escape.

First one is obvious, I sleep on pillow because it is next to Theresa while she sleeps and I have to protect her from bad things.  Also, pillow is warm and snuggly.  If someone would get Newton, who is me, a big fluffy pillow and put it by the human bed on the floor, problem will be solved.

Next, the peepee.  Making peepee on stuff is how dogs say, "That is mine."  That is why I make little bit of peepee on my soft bed, trees outside, and Fuzzy Duck who did not seem to mind.  The bald human's shoes are not mine, but I make peepee on them anyway because it is funny when he turns red and chases me into his room, where I hide under his bed.  Dogs do not laugh, but on the inside it makes me crack up.  Except when he uses the metal stick to poke me in the side, which hurts. So now I, who is Newton, have to wear a stupid-looking pair of shorts when I'm in the house, which is embarrassing.  But sooner or later I will figure out how to take off the shorts (maybe I can bribe Munson with a Tater Tot and he will help me).  And then I will find the fancy shoes and have a peepee party.

Also, sometimes I get bored of my back yard, which has stickers that hurt when they get in my paws.  The side gate is easy to get through (for me, but not for Munson, who has wide butt like I said before) so of course I escaped to go find stuff.  I wasn't running away, I just got lost when the mean and ugly cat chased me.  I was happy when the gray-haired man next door, who throws me treats over the wall when Theresa and bald human are at work, found me and took me home those three times.  But now there is some kind of wire on gate so I can't get out anymore. 

So now you know the truth.  I, who is Newton, am a good dog who is unfairly treated by bald human who skimps on the treats and talks scary to me.  But I will tell you this.  If some night a bad person sneaks into my house and tries to hurt the bald human, I will jump up and rip the bad person's face right off.

That is because even though the bald human is not perfect, he is one of my people family so Newton, who is me, loves him.  Even more than Tater Tots, which is a lot.


s

A Letter to Newton, My Mentally Challenged Stepdog

Dear Newton,

First of all, I need to make something clear to you.  You are not my dog.  You are Theresa's dog, which means that while she is forced to love you unconditionally, I'm am under no such obligation.  I happen to like Theresa, so I'm pretty much stuck with you.  But my love is VERY conditional, so I believe it's only sporting of me to make a few things clear so you can't plead ignorance when someday I beat you to death with my TaylorMade seven iron. 

Condition 1: Stay the Hell Off My Pillow

It's bad enough that Theresa lets you sleep under the covers, but apparently that's not good enough for you.  Every night, after I've gotten all ready for bed, there you are curled up on my pillow.  MY pillow, Flea-face, not yours.  When I give you "the look", that means you're supposed to move, not look the other way and pretend you don't see me.  When I say, "NEWTON MOVE YOUR ASS!" I know you can hear me because you can hear the sound of a Cheez-It hitting tile from three rooms away.  I've sacrificed part of the bed for you, buddy, leave my pillow alone.

Condition 2: Do Not Under Any Circumstances Piss in the House

Perhaps you've noticed that since we've moved to the new house you've been wearing a diaper.  That's to keep you from, as dog-lovers so adorably put it, "marking your territory" on the carpet, bookcases, furniture, and most recently, a 100-dollar pair of Giorgio Brutini snakeskin loafers.  And don't play innocent with me, my friend.  I know that you know you're not supposed to whiz on things.  Otherwise, when I catch you at it you'd just look all confused, not run the hell away and hide under the bed.  Which reminds me, when you're curled up under the bed and you feel a metal object poking you in the ribcage (it's called a seven-iron, make a note of it), that means you're supposed to get out from there.


Condition 3: You Are Not in Leavenworth, So Stop Trying to Escape

Look, between you and me, if you really want to run away I'll be more than happy to pack you a little backpack full of Snausages and tennis balls and bid you a fond adieu.  Hell, tell me where you want to go and I'll drive you there.  But that would break Theresa's heart and I'd somehow get blamed for it, so let me just explain this to you and be done with it.  If you have to squeeze your head and body through cast-iron bars, that means you're going someplace you're not supposed to.  Like the other day, when our kindly neighbor hunted you down on the next cul-de-sac and brought you home.  Three times.  It makes you seem ungrateful.  What, the Ginger Snaps aren't up to your standards?  The freaking fireplace isn't warming your scrawny backside efficiently enough?  Careful what you wish for, pal, someday no one's gonna come looking for you.

Condition 4: Quit Being Such a Candy Ass

Newt, you are a rat terrier, which means your ancestors took care of their masters (a term which you're obviously unfamiliar with, incidentally) by sniffing out and ridding the farm of rats and other vermin.  You, though, would be more appropriately called a Bacon Terrier or perhaps a Tater Tot Terrier.  If you recall, the only time you've encountered anything like a rat (it was a hamster), you immediately ran into the corner and pissed yourself.  I'm sure your relatives would be proud.  Also, when you're being scolded for one of your many transgressions, be a man about it.  Don't just flop over on your back like a little, well, bitch.  It's pathetic.

I don't mean this to sound like a threat Newt, but if you keep this up, someday Theresa's going to come home and find out that you've "run away and although I spent three hours driving around the neighborhood looking for him, I just couldn't find him anywhere."  I might even put up "Lost Dog" signs just to be more convincing, though there's no guarantee I'll include our real phone number.

Think I'm bluffing?  Piss on my shoes again and find out, buster.

Sincerely,

Chris


d

I'm Here For You, Sandra

Disclaimer:  Despite what you're about to read, there is only one love of my life, and that would of course be my wonderful Theresa.  I can't imagine being happier with anyone, and under no circumstances would I ever leave her for another woman, no matter who that woman would hypothetically be.  Even if this imaginary fantasy babe threw herself upon me, I would only scoff and send her on her way with nary a second glance.  That's just not the kind of man I am because, as I said, Theresa is the only one for me.

All right, now that we've got the "survival instinct" mumbo-jumbo out of the way, Sandra Bullock, if you're reading this, I'm here to mend your broken heart.

I've had a slight crush, and by that I of course mean "delusional obsession," on Sandy ever since I first saw the film Demolition Man.  Honestly, what's not to obsess over?  She's gorgeous, but in a real-life human being way, not the plastic-and-airbrushed-Pamela-Anderson way.  She seems like a sweetheart, kind of like Mary Ann and Ginger all rolled up into one breathtaking package.

And guess what, folks.  Looks like I just might be back in the running for Ms. Bullock's affections.

It seems that Sandra has been yet another casualty of a cheating dirtbag husband, the dastardly Jesse James.  You'd think that she would have been prepared for something like this, given Jesse's sordid history of train robbery, bank heists, and the shooting of innocent bystanders.  Remember the episode of the Brady Bunch where Jesse was Bobby's hero?  Well, Bobby learned his lesson after a terrifying nightmare illustrated just the kind of man Jesse James was.  A mean, dirty killer.

No, seriously, the Jesse James in question (Sandra's white trash husband) has apparently been having an affair with something called, and I'm not making this up, Bombshell McGee.  First of all, what the hell kind of name is that?  It sounds like a nickname that a Marine would be saddled with if he blew his hand off with a grenade.  "Hey, look!  Here comes Bombshell McGee!"

Bombshell is (surprise, surprise) a tattoo model and as such, barely qualifies to be a member of the same species as Sandra Bullock let alone a challenger for the poor woman's husband.  But, as a wise man once said, "De gustibus non est disputandum" (Translation: "Don't ask me what he sees in that skanky bitch"), and against all that is logical and decent, Jesse James discarded Sandy for 140 pounds of ink and bacteria.

I have to wonder what was going through Jesse's mind.  I mean, sure, men are by nature idiots and we've been known to make some really shit-brained decisions from time to time.  But screwing around on Sandra Bullock?  Even Charlie Sheen would say, "Damn, that's pretty fucking stupid."  Was Jesse lying in bed one night, all comfy-cozy in their million-dollar mansion, Oscar-winning wife lightly massaging him with cinnamon-scented body lotion when all of a sudden the thought occurred to him, You know, I gotta be able to do better than this?

Well, apparently so.

And to think, in her Golden Globe acceptance speech, Sandra went out of her way to thank this douchebag saying, "I finally know what it's like for someone to have my back."  Yeah, he had it, and then he shoved a knife in it.  Talk about the blind side, where was Michael Oher when you needed him?

I guess it was just a matter of time until Jesse answered the question that was on everyone's mind from the time the two of them got married.  That is, "What the hell does she see in that scuzzball?"

De gustibus non est disputandum, indeed.

So Sandy, darling, I understand that you're going through a rough patch right now.  Getting jilted is never easy, especially in such a public and utterly mind-boggling manner as this.  You've got to be wondering, "How in the world did I lose my husband to a bitch named Bombshell?"  But don't beat yourself up over it.  What you need is a knee-jerk, self-esteem boosting, purely physical rebound fling to get your life back on track.  Reboot the system, so to speak.  All you need is a nice guy willing to let you use him to fulfill your immediate needs, and then disappear without another word.

I'll bring the cinnamon-scented body lotion.


d

I Left My Shaving Cream in L.A. International Airport

Theresa and I decided to do something different this Valentines' Day, so we abandoned the tired old cliches such as heart-shaped boxes of candy and Hallmark cards in favor of a relaxing four-day weekend in San Francisco.

We arrived at Los Angeles International Airport a couple hours early, on the off chance that our flight was going to depart on time.  We got our boarding passes, and proceeded to the security checkpoint.  My carry-on was the lucky winner of a more thorough inspection because I was bringing along "Wheezer," my CPAP machine.  I have no problem with the extra scrutiny, because safety is the first priority and you never know when Al-Qaida will start disguising bombs as sleep-apnea treatments.  During the examination of my bag, the TSA officer also confiscated my shaving cream, which resembled a can of plastic explosive or something.

Here's the funny part.  I don't mean "ha-ha" funny, like Sarah Palin getting hit by a bus, this is more like "how the hell does this happen in post-9/11 America" funny.  Later on, when we got to our hotel, Theresa discovered that she'd left her three-inch locking blade knife in her purse rather than in the checked baggage.  That's right, folks, the knife made it through the security checkpoint undetected.  Apparently, TSA believes that a woman in possession of a knife poses less of a threat than a 6'3" guy wielding a can of Barbasol.  That, my friends, is profiling and I strenuously object.

No trip to the L.A. airport would be complete without a celebrity sighting.  At our gate, I saw an old lady that used to be in commercials.  You guessed it, it was the corpse of Margaret Hamilton!

Not really.  I still can't remember her name, or the commercials she starred in, but believe me when I tell you if you saw her, you'd immediately point and call out, "HEY!  IT'S THAT LADY FROM THAT COMMERCIAL!"  Actually, it's been driving me batty that I can't remember what she was in.  I've run every Google search I can think of, but it's no use.  It wasn't Josephine the Plumber, and it wasn't Mother Nature.  If you could help me out, I'd be eternally grateful or at least be able to sleep at night.

So anyway, our flight out of Los Angeles was, in theory, scheduled to leave at 3:55 but here's a big surprise -- we were delayed.  At about 3:00, the following announcement came over the loudspeaker:

"Flight 1582 to San Francisco is being delayed until 4:55.  However, do not leave the gate area, as the flight may actually depart prior to that time, or even at the originally scheduled departure time.  There is also the possibility that the flight will have to be delayed further."

Did you get that?  Either the flight was going to be on-time, delayed, or delayed even further.  Why not just make the announcement, "We are pretty sure that flight 1582 will be departing at some point in the future."

We left shortly after 5:00.

We arrived in San Francisco without incident, which is to say "late, tired, and hungry" and took a cab to the hotel.  We stayed at the Hyatt Fisherman's Wharf, which I highly recommend to any of you who may be traveling to the Bay Area.  Since we hadn't eaten, we decided to walk down to the wharf, where we had dinner at a very nice restaurant called Neptune's Palace.  I had the shrimp alfredo, which was delicious.  However, when I asked for a glass of water, the waitress informed me that they were having a problem with their plumbing so all the water was, and I quote, "yellow".  I told her to forget about the water, and I spent the rest of the meal trying not to think about where the carbonated water in my Diet Coke had come from.

We slept in on Saturday, and then took the cable car to Chinatown for lunch.  For those of you who have never been to San Francisco, I'd like to point out that the city's landscape resembles Magic Mountain's famous roller coaster "Colossus."  So we got off the cable car and walked down Clay Street, and by that I don't mean that we walked in a certain direction on Clay Street, I mean that we walked, literally, DOWN Clay Street at approximately a 70-degree angle.

We ate at a lovely place called The Oriental Pearl.  During our meal, we noticed two women at the table next to us enjoying an appetizer consisting of, as far as I could tell, eyeballs.  At another table, there was a family who really should've opted for a more suitable restaurant like, say, McDonald's.  The four-year old boy, who clearly did not possess an "inside voice," insisted on using his chopsticks as drum sticks and his chair as a jungle gym.  This continued until his father gave him his cell phone so Junior could talk to, I'm guessing, his grandmother.  Obviously, I couldn't hear Grandma's end of the conversation, but everything she said prompted Junior to reply, "I'M EATING CHICKEN!"

We finished our lunch, and I must tell you the food was outstanding, and walked UP Clay Street to catch another cable car.  We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping, sight-seeing, and relaxing back at the hotel.  That evening, we went to a comedy club called Punchline, and saw the hilarious Dana Gould.

Sunday morning, we had brunch with my brother Eric and his girlfriend, who live in the Haight-Ashbury area of San Francisco.  We ate at Crepes on Cole which, despite its "hole in the wall" atmosphere (or maybe because of it), turned out to be our most enjoyable dining experience of the weekend (no disrespect toward Neptune's Place or The Oriental Pearl intended).

The rest of our trip included a walk down Lombard Street (also known as "the world's crookedest street"), a bay cruise that took us around Alcatraz and under the Golden Gate Bridge, and a visit to the Aquarium of the Bay.

MOMENTARY DIGRESSION

I don't know who came up with the idea of serving clam chowder in a bowl made of sourdough bread, but he is a genius and should receive a Nobel Prize.

END OF MOMENTARY DIGRESSION.

On Monday we took a cab to the airport two hours early, in the foolishly-optimistic hope that our flight would leave on time.  It didn't, of course, so we sat around the airport reading and partaking of over-priced snack foods.

All in all, Theresa and I had a fantastic weekend, and we'll definitely be returning to the City by the Bay in the near future.  And next time, I'll remember not to pack my suspicious can of shaving cream in my carry-on bag.