Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Punch Buggy & The Joy Of Ambush

This post was inspired by Steve Novak's tale of abusing his wife through that old "Jinx-Owe me a Coke!" game we played when we were kids and two people said the same thing at the same time. Except that Steve played it that you yelled jinx and then the other person couldn't talk until you released you jinx. And apparently I am either a) a girl, or b) gay, because I played the "owe me a Coke" version. Fortunately, I am willing to sell my masculinity for a soda pop, so I can live with that. I will not, however, sell my birthright for a mess of pottage.

Check THAT out bitches!! Biblical references!! Your key to substantive literature!!

That last line? I totally ripped it off from "Bloom County". I mean word for word. That kids, is plagiarism. Except that I properly sourced it, so we're going to call it an homage.

But I come here not to bury Caesar, but to explain the game of "Punch Buggy" to Steve. Frankly, given the contents of his blog, I can't believe he's never played this game, but he expressed confusion and so, in an effort to allow him to regress even more to 10-year-old status, (his admission), here we go.

Punch Buggy was a game I picked up in college, although apparently most kids who weren't shut-ins playing Dungeons & Dragons with their equally geeky friends all through middle and high school, (No really, Zoe, it's totally cool to play D&D as an adult though), ("Gramma, I'm an orc" STILL kills me), knew about it much before that. And they knew how to approach women. And dress. and a lot of other things, but this game is about Punch Buggy.

How long do you think I can keep rambling before I actually explain the game?

OK, here we go. The game can be played by two or more people. It can be played incars, but if so, its generally considered a good idea to immediately disqualify the driver. Sort of like Olympic bobsledding would be safer for everyone if the team from the Virgin Islands was just immediately disqualified. Nice sled colors though.

As the parties mosey along, the opportunity may arise to observe old fashioned Volkswagon Beetles. The new kind do not count. Although they might have to soon, becuase the older models are increasingly confined to third world countries like Cuba, Mexico and Alabama. (Syd puts down the gun). Upon observing such a vehicle, and making note of its color, the game is on. The first person to yell out "Punch Buggy Yellow, (or blue, red, hippie-pastel-flowers), and punch their opponent on the shoulder, wins a point. Person with the most points at the end of the trip, or the last one who can actually raise their shoulder, wins.

The two people I knew who were most enthusiastic about this game were my brother and his ex-girlfriend. One day thet stopped at our house and she was complaining because they had seen a lot of beetles on the way over and she was really sore. I knew why they were seeing so many. I took her aside, becasue if there's anything more fun than punching people in the shoulder when a car drives by, it's setting up your brother to get the crap beat out of him by a girl.

Down the street from our house was a state park. At the state park was a convention of VW Beetle enthusiasts. While walking the dog, I had noticed a field full of Beetles, all kinds of colors. First I whaled on the dog, yelling "punch buggy blue, green, red, yellow", until she bit me, then I came home. The field where the convention was being held was just beyond a small hill. In other words, you couldn't see it until you were right on top of it. I told the girl to drive down that way, and the second they topped the rise to just start yelling "Punch Buggy" followed by random colors and punch the bejesus out of my brother's shoulder.

He didn't talk to me for a week.

So there you are Steve. Punch Buggy explained. Happy hunting.

Monday, January 29, 2007

More Food

Relax, hot dog casserole was not involved. Last night, being the swell guy that I am, I took the family out to dinner. Since I am also a family guy and occasionally have to keep the kids entertained, we went to one of those Mexican-themed chain restaurants. The kind where the only things that are really authentic Mexican are the guys in the back washing dishes and keeping one eye on the emergency exit in case the INS bursts in. Althought the dishes were really clean.

As I'm gnawing my way through a couple of fish tacos that were decidedly made of fish, possibly bait fish true, but fish nonetheless, my kids are pestering my about desert. Being the good Dr. Spock adherent that I am, I say that they can have desert if they finish their dinners. Then I take a second look at their dinners and realize I'm basicaly telling them "Before you have any gooey chocolate covered cake you have to finish your gooey cheese-covered burrito", and think to myself that it would probably be more merciful if I just reached into their chests and ripped their liitle hearts out now.

But I didn't, because we would have been asked to leave before I finished my margarita, and so we got to dessert. In an effort to avoid the onset of juvenile diabetes, I proclaim that we will have one piece of chocolate-cake-grande-mucho- something-or-other, and four spoons. We got four forks, which the waitress apologized for, (apparently the INS had interrupted the silverware cycle), but really, as long as we didn't have to eat with our hands, we were OK with it.

My daughter takes about three giant bites of the whipped cream and decides she's done. My wife takes two TINY bites of cake and pronounces it gross. Which it was not. I get in about three bites and determine that it's just too rich for mere mortals, and I intend to stop.

Notice I said "intend."

My son is doing his best steam shovel impersonation. Giant chunks of cake, chocolate sauce and whipped cream are being carved out of the landscape and deposited into the gaping maw that has replaced his mouth. His eyes have the same wide-eyed look of wonder and glee that I imagine African crocodiles have when a particularly fat and retarded wildebeest stumbles too close to the watering hole. At first this is funny, but I start to become alarmed after about five bites. He's slowing down, but since he's inherited my genes there's just no way any of this cake is going to be allowed to go back to the kichen, (besides, there's no one left to wash the plate), even if massive stomach trauma results. Heroically I pick up my fork and wade back in. Even my wife takes another, albeit small, bite. Another few bites, and the cake is gone. We pay and leave.

On the way home my son asks if we can open the window, never mind that it's 20 degrees out. We do. Then we start asking him if he wants some chocolate cake when we get home. He proclaims his hatred of us and all things chocolate.

He was fine this morning. I on the other hand, am feeling a bit woozy.

Now, here's something I've been meaning to say for a little while. There is a particular blog out there that I visit regularly. I don't link to the writer and they have never commented on here. But I'm pretty sure they read this. Why am I sure, you ask? Because I have noticed that with some regularity I may write about a particular topic and within a couple of days, that same topic is written about on that blog. Oftentimes it may not be the main subject of the article, but just some little aside, sort of like the kind that I make all the time. Because I can't actually write. So here's the thing. And again, it's no one I link to or for that matter anyone I've ever had a comment from, so you're all OK with me. But if I go to this particular site and read about a family trip to a faux Mexican restaurant, I'm beating the hell out of you. Or, since I'm too cheap to pay air fare, just posting your actual name and address here. Where 20 people will see it. Maybe 22.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Home Cookin'

In celebration of my finishing one year of writing this crap, Lady K promised me a casserole. Which I'm still waiting for. But in response to her generous offer I mentioned that as a wee child growing up, my mom would occasionally make a dish that was called "Hot Dog Casserole." Coincidentally, this dish involved hot dogs.

We were always big on truth in advertising in our house.

But that's not all it involved. In addition to the scraped up remains of goats, hogs and other animals I'd rather not think about, this casserole contained a couple of packets of Birdseye frozen mixed vegetables, elbow macaroni, and a liberal, and I do mean liberal, helping of mayonaisse to hold it all together.

No one's going to ask for this recipe are they?

Here's the thing though. I loved it. If my mom told me we were having it for dinner, I would get as excited as I now would if my wife said that she was grilling up a thick steak for dinner and that Jessica Biel was coming over to eat it off her stomach. I would be THAT happy. I loved it.

So in law school while living in an apartment with three other guys, I would occasionally make it myself. Everyone laughed, but I liked it just fine. Plus it was quick and I didn't have to pick cockroaches out of any of the ingredients, since they were either frozen, refrigerated, or in a sealed bag. Unlike when we'd try to make pancakes and the Bisquick would be moving.

That's not a joke. It is, however, an excellent source of protein.

So anyway, time passes and I haven't made this stuff in years. Nor has my mother. Probably because we've all realized what that shit would do to our arteries. So recently my wife is making fun of my cooking skills, which consist mostly of not burning the Eggos, and she brings up hot dog casserole. All of a sudden, like prairie dogs looking for hawks, the kids pop up from the other side of the table.

"Hot dog casserole? What's that? Is it good? Can you make it? Now?"

I look at my wife. She shrugs. "They're your kids", conveniently forgetting that I saw both of them come out of HER. I agree to re-enter the kitchen for a one-time only performance. I get out the macaroni, the hot dogs, some kind of frozen vegetables, and of course, the mayo. I boil, slice, strain and mix. I serve. I include a portion for myself.

It's awful. I can't believe I liked this stuff. Jessica Biel eating steak off my wife's stomach would be WAAAAAAAYYYY better than this! And also probably better than opium, but I wouldn't know because while my mom would serve hot dog casserole, she never did let us have opium.

The kids? Oh, they loved it. But we're still eating pizza tonight.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Obligatory Announcement

I think there's some sort of blogger requirement to anounce that I've been doing this little dose of misery for a year as of last weekend. I guess it did last more than three months, as pointed out by someone named Darren Mulroney who commented once and never came back again. Judging from the contents of his blog, I think he was probably just lost to begin with. He's a little more tech-oriented than I am, but then, so are the GEICO cavemen. "My mother's calling. I'll put it on speaker." Cracks me up.

Anyway, over the last year I've learned many exciting things, like how to put up pictures, how to link to different things, and that at least 1,500 of you have had, at some point, so little to do that you've wandered into this little corner of the internet, if for nothing else than to review my profile and figure out what kind of asshole left that incredibly insensitive comment on your blog. Well, it was me.

Can't promise another year, although I doubt you were holding your breath on that anyway, but so far it's been fun.

Oh, and go here for some interesting pictures of people that probably violate some kind of restraining order. Although its not against me, so screw it.

And Syd, I don't think Wen would mind if I used her hand for that one.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

The Eyes Have It

Yeah, like you wouldn't be doing the same thing.

Monday, January 15, 2007

A Few Days Of Surprises

First, I apologize for any inconveniences you may encounter. I switched over to BETA today. Didn't want to, but when I tried getting one here for the last couple of days all I encountered was a blank page that was nearly as black as my soul. Couldn't see nuthin'. So I figured the Googel terrorists had bombed my site and were forcing me to capitualte to their demands. Since I possess all the backbone of your average jelly fish, I followed the French model and capitualted while retaining an inner air of arrogance.

Second, my 8 year old discovered that in one of the songs on his new Green Day CD, they say, or rather, sing, "Fuck". Horrors. I listened to the song and confirmed that they are not saying "truck", "luck" or "shuck". So of course I took the CD away right? Nope. I'd rather he hear that word than grow up listening to Justin Timberlake. Besides, it's not like he hasn't heard that word roughly 82 times over the last week what with the roofing excitement anyway.

Third, and this is the best one, I started watching yet another season of "24" last night. Yep, another four months watching incredibly unrealistic exploits and semi-fascist doings all in the name of national security. Sue me. I like the show. But here's the best part. This year's villian seems to be a fellow named Fyed, or Syed, or maybe Fred. I don't know. Adoni Maropis is the actor:

But as I'm watching the show, I keep thinking "I KNOW I've seen that guy somewhere before. I know it." Couldn't place him. Late last night, as, of all things, I'm cleaning the stove, it hits me.


I've seen him on one of those late night night soft-core pornos that one of the HBO/Cinemax stations shows. He gives a new-bride-to-be a thrilling send-off in a hot tub. One of those cases of mixed up hotel rooms that we all know so well from real life. She's kind of cute though.

I'm not sure how seriously I'll be able to take "24" this season. Still it's good to know at least one of the actors 'ahem' came up the hard way.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

I Am Not Afraid To Engage In Hyperbole

In the past, I've made hyperbolic statements that haven't proved true, or just in general turn out to be not such a hot idea. Things like "The Yankees will be unbeatable with Randy Johnson AND Alex Rodirguez", "I'm sure I'd be a great blogger", "Law school is a great way to spend three years", and "Sure, you can wear the strap-on this time". While all of those statements contain a certain amount on enthusiasm and exaggeration, most proved painfully mistaken. And of course there are others, but why list every single one? Although come to think of it "Of course I'll pull out in time!", probably should be up there. (Hey look, my kids!)

But that's not going to dissuade me from telling you that I have found The Greatest Rock 'N Roll Song Of All Time!! No sirree Bob! And not even by the Supersuckers either!

Here's the backstory. The other day, still carrying $100 my grandmother gave me for Xmas, and pissed off at the roof, the cars, (and now, old and in need of repair, The Furnace!), I decide I need to blow it. Since I've promised myself not to indulge in crack anymore, I decide to indulge in my other vices, reading, music and TV. So I invade a Borders store, beat up two beatniks sipping coffee and pretending to work on their lap tops and then buy the following:

1. The novel 'A Dirty Job' by Christopher Moore. Like my sense of humor? Like books about becoming the Angel of Death, or at least as assistant? You'll like this book. And pretty much anything else Moore writes.

2. DVD, Season 3 of 'Arrested Development'. To me it is simply criminal that this show was canceled. Hilarious.

3. And here it is. A CD by a band called The Hold Steady. The CD is called "Separation Sunday". here's the deal. I'm not really wild about most of it. The singer isn't much for singing. The lyrics sort of clash with the tunes. Some of it is harsh and annoying. But track 3, oh, track 3. "Your Little Hoodrat Friend" Made the whole CD worthwhile. Played it like 18 times straight. Can't recommend it enough. Go find it on iTunes or wherever you iPod-having fuckers hang out and download it. Or buy the whole CD. It's worth it.

PS From the mind of Syd, who apparently has limitless time to cruise the internet and find links, this should play the actual song. A side-note to some of my lazier readers, you will actually have to turn your speakers on to get the full effect.

The Hold Steady - ...

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

I'm Not Saying This Again

An Open Post to the good people at Dunkin Donuts:

For the last goddamn time, no I do not want to try your new "White Hot Chocolate". I also do not want to get two doughnuts and "make it a combo meal". I want regular hot chocolate and I want one doughnut. Just one. See, that way I won't seal my arteries with all sorts of greasy, sugary goodness by cramming an extra jelly roll in there. Honest to Christ, even McDonald's is humping salads these days and you people are trying to get us to eat more doughnuts!

And Hot White Chocolate? Whoever thought that up should be fired, pronto. Who would order that? My asking for my daily medium hot chocolate, hold the whipped cream wasn't gay enough for you? You've got to throw white chocolate out there too?

Look, just give me what I order and take my money. And if I want my hot chocolate white and my doughnuts doubled, you know what? I'LL FUCKING ASK FOR THEM!!!

Yours Sincerely,


Monday, January 08, 2007

Isn't It A Little Early For This?

First, it's a little early for spring, but Saturday it was 72 degrees out and I actually launched the canoe I got for Xmas for an afternoon paddle. Freaking ridiculous. Sure, yeah, global warming's a myth. Absolutely. On the plus side, I'm about an hour from the ocean, but in ten years I should have some valuable oceanfront property.

But it's actually really a little early for the kids to turn on me. Saturday we had a belated birthday party for my daughter and her friends. She is 6, mind you. I'm driving her to her "princess" themed party and I ask, hopefully, "Are you sure you want Daddy there with all the princesses?", and I get this reply from the back seat:

"Yes" pause and then, (for best results say in a grim, low voice) "and don't embarrass me"

I can't wait til she's a teenager.

Friday, January 05, 2007

I Can't See Clearly Now, The Rain Is Here

Heading into the weekend, here are some developments at Chez Limpy. Last night, as I usually do on Thursdays, I played poker. On Tuesdays I molest pigeons, but that's really not any of your business is it? I won some cash, (about enough to pay for one of the four struts we need to replace on one of our cars), and wandered home at 2 am. Five hours later I am awakened by the sound of several men clomping around on my roof and banging on things.

Naturally my first thought was that the Feds were on to my meth lab operation. My second thought was that the guy my wife knows who said he was going to fix the leak in our roof that the other guy my wife knows apparently left there when he redid the roof was here at an ungodly early hour. My third thought was that I should stop hiring people my wife knows. And my fourth and final thought was that if you're going to run a meth lab, you probably shouldn't mention it in your blog. So you heard nothing, got it?

Later my wife comes in. The second guy has apparently told her that a) the first guy was probably using illegal labor in the form of retarded chimpanzees and did a shitty job, b) we should report his ass to the state, c) we need a new roof, d) a legitmate estimate for such a project is probably $10,000.

Anyone wanna buy a house?

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Calling Capt. Obvious

Something to jot down while I wait for the swelling in my pants to go down after "Syd's latest post"

I'm watching TV last night, which is oh so very different from every other night when I practice alchemy in the basement, and I see a commercial for Sylvan Learning Centers. Now, my knowledge of Sylvan is limited to knowing that they sponsored the only team in our Little League that managed to beat my son's team this year. And they did it by only one run in a game shortened by three innings becasue most of the kids from both teams had to go to a choral performance at one of the schools.

Seriously, what kind of lame-ass shit is that? A nice spring night and we have to cut a BASEBALL game short for a choral performance for fuck's sake? That still bugs me. Mostly because I am an amazingly shallow and petty person. And you better beleive that we kicked the shit out of those Sylvan kids in the last game of the season. Seriously. It was like 26-7. I had the kids so motivated to avenge their only defeat that you would think I had them hopped up on greenies or something. You'd think that, but you'll never prove it, so don't bother trying.

Back to the commercial. In it they show a couple of kids who have some achievements they'll brag about, but they won't show you their crappy algebra scores. "Sylvan can help you with this" First, Stephen Fucking Hawking couldn't have helped my high school algebra scores, and he might have been able to beat me in cross-country too, so thanks for bringing that up, Sylvan. Pricks. But my favorite one was "Johnny can reach level 16 on his video game. But he can't attain his grade level in reading. Sylvan can help with this"

Sylvan can help with this? Sorry, so can I. Throw that damn video game out until Johnny gets his reading up to grade level! How hard is that?

Hey, if that link works, thank "Shellibells" , who told me how to do this. Sort of like Sylvan helps the slower kids use the computer without resorting to a hammer. If it doesn't work, blame me.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

We Now Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

or, to put it more accurately, my vacation is over and I'm back at work with lots more time to screw around on the internet. And to our compliance officer let me just say back off!, I'm on lunch break.

We didn't go anywhere this vacation other than odd trips to relatives houses to share in the joy of Christmas, and more importantly, to get our share of loot. Because nothing says "Yay, Jesus" than a new skateboard and some DVDs.

We did, however, spend lots of money. And not on presents either. Nope. My car was due for the timing belt to be replaced. In the old days I would just wait for the thing to snap and then glide to a stop. God may indeed be my co-pilot, but if he's gonna ride up front, once in awhile, (about every 130,000 miles or so), he's gonna have to take the wheel and get us over to the break down lane. Sure, it's fun to risk life and limb, but now that I have two kids, I get things fixed ahead of time. Cha-ching! $765, the car runs like it's new, and everyone's safe.

Exept that when we cruised over to our friends' house for New Years Eve, my wife noticed that my car, (the same model as hers), (except I have a newer car and it's got a sun-roof and CD player! Boo-yah!), runs much better than hers does. I drive her car the next day and am disturbed by the rattling and shaking. We take said car down to our local "Tires n' Stuff" and they say that the struts are shot and need to be replaced and, Cha-ching!, the bill should be $900-$1,000.

Are we done there? Nooooooooo. Why not? Well, because we apparently hired the retarded cousin of Syd's roofer. This is the guy that didn't quite cover up the entire roof when the second biggest rainstorm of the year was due, then seemed surprised when we called him up and made him shag-ass over to our house and fix the covering. Well, yesterday we got a new leak. Don't have the estimate to fix it yet, but you can bet who WON'T be fixing it.

I'm counting on this run to be us getting rid of all of our bad financial luck early in the year. And to that end, I am confidently going to empty my 401K, (all $2.64), go down to Foxwoods, and put it all on black. Let it ride, baby, let it ride.

Oh, a friend of mine did drag me to the casino the other day while I was waiting to get my car fixed. He showed me how to play craps. Apparently, you put all of your chips on various little boxes on the felt, then some guy rolls the dice, everybody groans, and the casino people take all your chips away. Looked like a fun game. I'll stick with poker.