Friday, June 29, 2007

Hey Syd, Look Over Here!

In case you're wondering, there's no point to this post.

Other than posting half-nekkid pictures of Eva Mendes.

And if that's wrong, I don't want to be right.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends

Today's title is ripped striaght from the title of a show that my kids like to watch. I watch it sometime with them, because as kid's shows go, it's pretty funny. Unlike "The Naked Brother's Band", which is so bad that it makes me wish I was a Muslim cleric so that I could impose a fatwa of death on everyone associated with the show. I mean really, why is a 8 year old singing a song called "Long Distance Relationships Will Kill You"? Seriously, what's long distance to you? Three rows away in history class. No, those relationships won't kill you, especially if I get there first.

Back on the subject, this summer we've opened "Limpy's Home For Wayward Class Pets" Seems the 4th grade has a class pet, a frog called "Jerry Springer" Get it? Springer? Frog? Gosh those 4th graders slay me. Anyway, with no one in class all summer, Jerry needed a good home for a few months. Tough shit for him there weren't any good ones available, but ours was. So on the last day of school I showed up and damn near herniated myself carrying a half-full aquarium tank up the stairs to my son's room, sloshing water all over the place as I went. Jerry seemed upset but survived.

Jerry, it turns out, is an African Clawed Frog. A friend of mine is a herpetologist, (someone who molests reptiles), so I called him and asked for advice. He told me that these frogs were nearly impossible to kill, (is that a dare?), and just to throw it food regularly and we should cruise right through the summer. Which is good, because I think the 4th grade teacher was a little frightened after the conversation we had as I was loading little Jerry into the trunk.

Her: (in a whisper so the kids didn't hear her) "Last year we sent out two frogs, but only one came back. So don't worry if he dies"

Me: "I'm not. It's a frog."

But I think we'll try to keep Jerry around. It turns out he likes to sing all night in the dark, and it's kind of funny. And it keeps my son in his room all night, instead of wandering into our room.

In fact, Jerry may stay with us longer than the 4th grade thinks.

Monday, June 25, 2007

If You Go Out In The Woods Today

C'mon everybody, sing along with "The Teddy Bears Picnic" whilst I tell you what I did this weekend.

Well, Saturday I just mowed the lawn, changed the oil in my car and watched the kids while the wife was out. Watching the kids entailed building a rocket and seeing what happens when you mix vinegar and baking soda. Waht happens is that you shake it once, start to turn it over, and then watch as the launcher shoots across the yard. We bought more vinegar today and will try to actually launch it later.

But Sunday we went on a big hike. Big by my son's standards. We were with my father and brother, and when we were discussing whether we should climb the mountain by the six-mile route or drive most of the way up and take the mile trail, my son piped up and said he could go the longer, (and more interesting), route. So I told him if he completed it I'd give him $10. He did, staying hydrated to such an extent that I think on the way down the mountain he stopped to pee four times. I was proud of him.On the way up the mountain we reached a trail junction where we intended to go off to the the right and around the mountain before picking up the Appalachian Trail and swinging up and over the summit. But at the junction we met two women with dogs who reported seeing a bear a half mile up the other trail. So my son and I headed off in that direction to see if we could spot us a bear. The chances were remote, as the women had dogs who had gone after the bear, with the bear apparently in a good enough mood that he, (or she), just ambled off rather than taking the dogs out with a couple of claw swipes.

We never did see the bear, but on the way up the trail, my son asked what we'd do if we saw one. I said we'd stop moving and just watch it if it was far away, and that we'd back away if it was close. He then asks,

"If it comes after us, how fast can you run?"

I responded "Faster than you, and that's all that matters."

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Because Tysgirl Asked

Tysgirl took me to task for not posting anything since Monday, thereby failing to entertain the masses. Apparently my insightful and witty banter in the comments sections of your blogs just isn't enough. So despite having spent most of last night and some of this morning roaming around some of eastern CT's finer biker bars, I have pulled myself together enough to mention this.

If I see another goddamn Dunkin' Donuts commercial with this overstuffed meth- addled chipmunk proclaiming the glories of iced coffee or asking "Is quilicious a word?" with breathless curiousity,

I'm going to find out where she films her show and punch her right in the fucking face. AND QUILICIOUS IS NOT A WORD!!!

Now let's all be quiet and let me nap.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Pilot to Bombardier, Pilot to Bombardier

In my last college post, (no I won't link to it; it's like two posts down! Just scroll down you lazy sod!), I was talking about Econ 101. In the comments Dykewife mentioned statistics. Which reminded me of another story.

In order to get a liberal arts degree from UCONN back in the day, you had to fulfill a number of requirements. You had to complete a number of "W", or writing oriented courses. Generally these were English courses, and if you could read and bullshit, you were guaranteed a B. In fact, the last of these I took I forgot about the final exam, remembered while at a Xmas party, dashed over in the nick of time, and pulled a B+ while really pretty drunk. In short, W courses weren't a real challenge.

You had to have your tuition check clear, that was a big one.

And you had to take three "Q" courses. And pass them. While the "W" courses stood for writing, the "Q" stood for mathematics. Or calculations. Or something having to do with math that started with Q. Beats me. Math isn't my strong subject. But I still had to pass three of these. I actually did so poorly on my orientation math test that I had to take Math 101, which is like Math-For-Kids-With-Mittens-Taped-To-Their-Jackets. I showed up for one class, said hi to the basketball team, then went to my advisor du jour and said "Even I know this is a fucking joke. Gimme that test again." I passed it, transferred to Business Math 106, promptly failed it, and eventually passed Math 104. Woo-hoo.

The second course I took was Statistics 101. Clearly I was hoping it was the equivalant of Math 101, and we'd spend our time calculating points per minute played, rebounds a game, convictions a season, things like that.

No such luck. No, we had to do real math and draw graphs and find the likelihood of all sorts of things that I'm not even going to pretend to understand. I started the semester off with a low D and, through hard work and effort, and luck and a bell curve that would frighten Sylvia Plath, pulled a C+. Score! Then I promptly forgot everything I learned except one thing:

How to make a kick-ass paper airplane.

Can you see where this is going? Here's a question for you. Knowing what you know about me, what is the statistical likelihood that a combination of a paper airplane and yours truly are NOT going to disrupt a Stats 101 class by the end of this story? Discuss, and don't forget your graph.

Our class was taught by an excitable Indian professor, and was held in a large auditorium. There were two sections to the auditorium, the way back, where you could sit and drink and/or get high with relative impunity. And the front section, which was pretty large, but you could still hear. You couldn't drink either. Unless, for instance, you had a can of soda which you poured all the soda out of and then replace with booze, but I never did that.

In that class.

I would sit towards the back of the front section. While I couldn't drink, I could doodle, daydream, contemplate the rise and fall of ancient Atlantis, leer at girls, and make paper airplanes. I was a lot more succesful at the airplanes than with the ladies.

One day I had made a very nice, tightly folded little airplane. For some reason I crimped the back of each wing. At the end of class, I just flipped it up in the air. Nowhere in particular, just a little toss.

I then watched in increasing horror as that sumbitch soared high into the air, turned to the right, and nose-dived right toward the professor. It hit him right in the back of the neck. He jumped about 3' in the air and yelled "Who is the bastard that did that!?" only in an Indian accent and much louder than you think. Having a low D at that point, and a relatively clear conscience given that this was a freak accident and if I'd been aiming at him he would have been the safest person in the room, I kept my mouth shut. He ranted on for a few minutes, but seemed to have fully recovered by the next class.

The next class during which I was greeted by two people saying "hey. it's the Mad Bomber" I did not fulfill their fervent requests to "do it again."

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Cat's In The Cradle My Ass

As I was driving to work this morning, tired and sore from our last Little League game of the season, this song came on. I had a few thoughts as I listened to it. The first was that I hoped no one I knew would see me at the red light, thereby discovering that I was on the easy listening station and blow my disguise as a hard-rocking rebel. The second was that someone should tell that kid in the song that if his Dad hasn't taught him to throw a ball by the time he's ten, his dad's a great big fag. And I don't mean that in the sense that Dad coordinates his wardrobe and knows all the good restaurants in Provincetown either. The third thing was that I should probably spend less time with my kids, before they kill me.

Bad enough that I coach Little League and have to deal with my own son and his habit of hammering line drives up the middle. It's a coach pitch league, but not a coach field league, so I can't stick my glove up. My reflexes are getting much better, but I think I've sprained three different muscle groups in my back this year while diving out of the way, I've been hit twice by hard ground balls, and once I had to catch a line drive because the alternative was to let the kid playing pitcher get skulled. But last night after getting back from the game my kids wanted to play kickball. Them against me. My son is very athletic and hammers the ball all over the place. He's also a devious little bastard and not above dropping a bunt if I back off to try to catch a hard shot. Of course, I'm not above pegging him hard enough to knock him off his feet when I do field a bunt, so I guess we're even on that one. My daughter, on the other hand, is a very good artist. But not an athlete. Or a competitor. So while I can get to her kicks easily, if I get her out more than one time in a row, she'll cry. And forget about a shot to the head. So she'll kick it and I'll have to run after my son, throw the ball into the bushes, run after it, get the ball out of the poison ivy, chase him as he sprints for home, then hurl the ball at his head while at a dead run from 30' away. While all this is going on my daughter gets to first base and my pulse gets to 146.

This went on for a good half hour before Daddy's BP reached near-stroke proportions and I called it off. I blamed their having to take showers, in between great big whooping gasps for air.

In short, Harry Chapin had the right idea. His kids may have grown up to ignore him, but at least he wasn't in pain during the entire warm season.

Of course, he also got high too much....

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

And That Reminds Me Of Another Story

Yesterday one of the big news stories around here was about a bomb threat in which some numbnuts called the state cops and said that a bomb was going to go off in a local high school. In a stunning display of originality, the little scamp wouldn't say what school, only the county. This led to the delay or closing of numerous schools, and will probably lead to an arrest in the near future when the moron brags to the wrong person about calling in the funny bomb threat and that person turns his ass in, with said ass then being turned into hamburger meat in the local jail. All that because they didn't study for the history final. Next time, junior, here's a tip from your Uncle Limpy: We won the American Revolution.

But that story took me back, like so many other things around here have an unfortunate tendency to do, to college. Where, as a young man, I enrolled for some reason in Economics 101. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with fulfilling a credit requirement for my degree. Because god knows to this day my knowledge of economics consists almost entirely of knowing that there are two lines marked "supply" and "demand" that control all the prices in the world. As opposed to the Jews.

At any rate, I stumbled through the semester learning about all sorts of fascinating things that happen when the hamburger market collapses and is replaced by peas, or when the widget factory goes out of business, or whatever other unrealistic example our professor could come up with. The time came for the final exam. The final for Econ 101 was scheduled for the early afternoon of the second to last day before the college closed for the winter break. If you've spent any time at all here, you know that I was planning on getting righteously blitzed after taking this exam. I had a chance to make Dean's list and I studied very hard to make sure Econ 101 and those goddamn peas wouldn't ruin it.

Incidentally, I made Dean's list every single Fall semester and not one single Spring semester. I'm sure there's a facinating thesis in there somewhere, but I'm not going to write it.

The time for the exam arrived and, dutifully scrubbed and carrying two No. 2 pencils, I arrived at the hall where the test was to be held. Only to find a squadron of cops, and the state version, not the yokels who usually wandered around campus, and several fire trucks. And a horde of people leaving the building. As luck would have it, I stumbled on my friend, (and unrequited crush), KJ, who told me that there was a bomb threat, and no tests were going forward until 6 pm.

6 pm! What the hell? I've got two cases of beer back in my room! Corona no less! (Splurging on a college budget = Coronas. Don't judge me). That's not going to work. I'd have to wait, like 5 hours!

Now, a rational person would have taken this as an opportunity to cram another four hours of study and maybe a nap in before taking the test. But by now, faithful reader, you've undoubtedly realized that "rational" and "Limpy" are two concepts not often in synch with each other, and this afternoon would be no exception. I went back to the dorm, looked at my notes, tossed them in the corner, went down to lunch, and then started cracking beers. I did modify my intake and kept it to 3-4 before wandering off, and I do mean "wandering", to the exam room. There, pleasantly buzzed, I set about filling in the little blank ovals. Then, finishing before most of the class, I returned to my room and joined in the year end revelry.

A few weeks later I got my report card. Econ 101. B+.

That's when I learned the last thing I still remember from that class. There is one HELL of a curve in that class.

Also drinking too much Corona requires a lot of reading material the next morning.

Friday, June 08, 2007

Father of The Year

Today is my son's birthday. 9 years ago today I held him in my arms and I never felt so much awe and fear and...

Hey, I should put that on a Starbucks cup and then everyone could know what a pretentious ass I am.
Just like that one I commented on a few months back, and am now too lazy to go back through the archives looking for.

But he's a pretty cool kid, and he did get me out of going to a heinous gathering tonight, so I went to the store this morning on the way to work and bought him the one present he really, really, really,really,reallyreallyreallyrealllyreallyreally REALLY wanted.

Halo 2.

It's some video game he played at a friend's house. I picked it up and talked to the clerk and made sure it was compatible with our computer. We don't have a video game system in our house, since I like to make our kids go outside, but more importantly because I don't want their games interfering with my 22 hour a day TV fix. So after confirming that it's compatible, (Indeed, it's actually designed for it!!!! Whoa!), I flip over the back and read the following:

Rated M. Ages 17+ Blood/Gore, Language, Partial Nudity.


Could be a problem.

I ask the clerk, "Hey, nerd, what's the story here? How nude is "partial"?"

He says he's played the entire game, (Of course you have, Caspar), and doesn't even remember any nudity. I figure that if a geek in the computer store can't recall the partial nudity it must not be there at all. The violence is supposedly tame, and they have to put that on any game that involves shooting, even if you're shooting the Snow Monsters of Geekador, or whatever the hell the object of this game is.

Then Caspar says, "But there is some pretty raw langauge in it"

To which I reply, "After the way the Yankees started this season, there isn't a thing in this game my kid hasn't heard three or four times already"

I bought the game. But I'm playing it first.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

My Memes Floweth Over

Lady K tagged me a few days ago. I'm a pushover, so I'll do it. Apparently the rules are to say 8 things about yourself, on any random topics. Then you tag 8 other people. However, I can always be counted on to throw chain letters out, and I'm not tagging anyone here either. You wanna do this, go ahead. It's entirely up to you.

1. I am right-handed.

2. I once wrote a letter to Penthouse Forum. It concerned myself, a petitie redhead with stunning green eyes, two sex toys and contained the phrase 'squealed like a pig in ecstasy.' With the the exception of the opening line "I never believed your stories were true", it was also completely false. It was a really good story and later disappeared. Several of us suspected one fo the other guys in the dorm stole it for his own uses. I refuse to go any farther down that road.

3. I met my wife in a bar. She came in while I was talking to another guy about a Little League team we were going to abuse/coach. I thought she was hot. She thought I had muscular shoulders. She was drunk. Early on my mother asked why I nver dated girls I met in church. My response was that "Probably becuase I haven't been to church in 8 years, but I'm at a bar every night."

4. I am very good at keeping secrets. For instance, this one time, my friend Dave told me he...never mind.

5. In 8th grade I was voted "Class Mad Scientist" To this day I don't know why, as my knowledge of science is limited to knowing that if you leave water over heat long enough, it will boil.

6. I am a Jeopardy! champion. I appeared on the show in 1998. I won the first time I was on. I got my ass kicked in the second show. Which was too bad because the next show was being taped in Boston, about 90 minutes from my house, and I guarantee I would have produced the rowdiest Jeopardy! crowd ever. After taxes I took home about $2.64 and a TV.

7. I (God, it's all about me isn't it?) hated law school and still regard it as a wasted three years. In my opinion law students learn very little that they will actually use in later practice. I think that the whole thing could be cut down to one year and another year of apprenticeship and the field would be better served. But since that would result in hundreds of professors actually having to practice a craft they clearly don't understand, that will never happen.

8. My wife has seen my cry exactly once. We were at a Mexican restaurant and I accidentally ate an entire jalapeno. This resulted in copious tears and rivers of snot running down my face. Years later, we had to put our dog down when her kidneys failed. Knowing that I would cry, my wife left for the day. Her explanation was "I don't want to have to tell everyone what a pussy you are."

And that's why I marry chicks I find in bars instead of churches.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Deus Ex Machina

This is a picture of Alyssa Milano

And this is a picture of Luis Tiant

And this is the story of how I saw both of them this weekend and got an autograph from one of them. It's also the story of divine intervention and good people, (me), getting good things, (tickets to the Yankees-Red Sox at Fenway), instead of having to sit through an interminable visit with people they don't like.

Growing up my wife spent a lot of time with her then best friend, who for our purposes we'll call Emily. Emily was the class valedictorian, went to church, had fine, upstanding parents, and a brother who was an Eagle Scout. Scrubbed, apple-cheeked children. Of course, in high school, Emily dated my brother, so I knew things about her that most people didn't. The look of horror on her face when she found out my wife was marrying into her high school boyfriend's family must have been priceless.

But I digress.

They still keep in touch, and that's all well and good. But I don't like her parents because to me they just have an air of superiority about them. And nothing drives me crazier than having to sit through an evening with superior-feeling people, especially when my wife likes them and I'm therefore not allowed to set their cars on fire. But Sunday it looked like I was going to have to go. I'd agreed to since it was important to my wife, and I figured I could parlay that into something down the road.

Then my buddy called. An hour before we were going to leave. Holding an extra ticket to the Yankees-Red Sox game that night. Wondering if I could go at the last minute. It was like getting a last minute call from the governor saying that the DNA tests had cleared you of the murder and they were shutting downn Old Sparky for the night. There are few things that will get me off the hook without reprecussions, but such a ticket is one of them. Outright bribery is another. Saved by the hands of the gods, (hence the catchy title!), and a golden ticket such that Charlie himself never saw, I was off to Fenway.

Since it was unseasonably cold, and my friend had taken the precaution of dressing in shorts and a T-shirt, (I read the weather report and had jeans and fleece. I'm a nerd like that. But a warm nerd), we had to stop at a souvenier shop so he could pay $75 for a sweatshirt and stave off hypothermia. I bought beer. And staved off dehydration.

In the souvenier shop were several models and Alyssa Milano. Apparently she's got a clothing line for baseball stuff aimed at women who want to look "fashionable." Or, judging from the appearances of the clothing line, like whores. Which I, for one, am wholly in favor of. And, as an added bonus, if you bought something, Alyssa would authograph it.

Or you could go across the street to Luis Tiant's restaurant, buy yourself a really tasty Cuban sandwich, and get a free autograph. I got him to autograph my Yankees hat. He gave me some grief about being a Yankees fan, but laughed and signed it when I pointed out that I watched him pitch for the Yankees for two years.

Of course, if Milano was offering blow-jobs, I probably would have foregone the Cuban sandwich.

Friday, June 01, 2007

Why Some Things Should Never Be

I just came back from a lunch with two friends of mine where we discussed buying a minor league baseball team. Keep in mind that this venture is significantly hampered by at least two of us not having that kind of money and or credit, and the third nout knowing much about baseball. Basically, while I'd love to own a minor league team, unless I can find an owner willing to risk losing his team in a rousing game of "What Have I Got In My Pockets?", its not going to happen.

And that may not be a bad thing. At least, judging by the ideas that were flying around for marketing the team. Changing the team name to the "Tools" for example. Allowing a fan to play third base for an inning or two. And my personal favorite, "Jailbait Night." I suspect that we'd lead the league in bad publicity and gate receipts, at least until we got busted.

Editor's Note: (actually, it's me. As Dykeswife pointed out, there aint' no editor around here) "What Have I Got In My Pockets" is stolen from JRR Tolkien's "The Hobbit", one of the first books I ever thumbed my grubby way through by myself. The reference makes no sense unless you've read the book. So if you didn't get it, go read the book, then come back and read the post again and it will be ever so much more hilarious.