"Forty-Two Ounces": a moistly-fictional work by Dave Morris*

"I've really got to use the restroom." Mike was in the back seat, fighting an urge that was fostered by the consumption of multiple beers and a long road trip.

Keith checked his odometer, it was still a few miles to an exit with a restroom. "Hang on, we'll be there in a few minutes."

The ultimate destination for today would be the Huzzah River. The three day itinerary included navigating vessels along the length of the watercourse to retrieve high resolution pictures for their organization's website.

An entire convoy of vehicles was moving west on I-44, and in the front car, Mike's urgency increased. "I really need to stop to use the restroom."

"Almost there, just a couple of more minutes." Keith was in the seat directly in front of Mike, unable to see the look of necessity on his face. The scheduled arrival time was inflexible; their mission was tightly scripted and largely shrouded in secrecy. An unplanned stop would be impossible.

A few more minutes passed, and when Mike spoke again, it wasn't to remind Keith of the urgent need to stop - it was to summon the help of Bill. "Here, take this and dump it out the window."

From the shotgun seat, Bill reached behind him and grabbed the object without thinking. It was a Miller Lite can, but the surface was uncannily warm. "Why are we dumping out perfectly good..." His words trailed off, as he realized what was inside the aluminum container.

Mike wasn't able to wait until the scheduled stop, and had begun gingerly filling up the same cans he had emptied only minutes before.

Bill blindly groped for the button to lower the window, the warm can starting a reaction in his stomach that was quickly reaching an urgent level. As the window opened, his diaphragm began convulsing, his throat straining to contain it's contents. He began emptying the contents of the can out the window, which predictably, the wind began blowing back onto his arm and into the vehicle.

Meantime, Mike had filled another can and passed it to Bill, who continued emptying frantically, while dry-heaving wildly. He dug in the floorboard for a towel to dry his arm, while the other cars in the convoy turned on their windshield wipers to clear the unwelcome moisture.

"Bill, here's another one," Mike blurted, topping off the third vessel of waste. So far, 36 ounces had been expelled sloppily from the car window, onto the console, and onto Bill.

And Mike wasn't finished.

Ninety seconds later, Bill announced the final total. "Forty-two ounces." He smirked, as the convoy rolled ironically to a stop at the rest area, just as he poured the last of the urine onto the roadway.

Mike smiled and farted.

---

* Some of this story is true. Okay, most of it. Okay, okay... all of it. But I wasn't involved. I wasn't even in the convoy.

January 28, 1986

I was just getting out of bed, because at the time, I worked the evening show on a station about 80 miles from where I lived. I turned on the television just in time to hear them break in with a special report.


The challenger was gone. I watched the faces of the families, who were gathered to view the liftoff. It was eerie, because none of them seemed to know what was going on... or at least, they were trying to believe that what they were seeing was "normal" and, somehow, the shuttle would eventually break through the huge cloud of smoke and continue it's ascent.

"They had a hunger to explore the universe and discover its truths. They wished to serve, and they did. They served all of us...

"And I want to say something to the school children of America who were watching the live coverage of the shuttle's takeoff. I know it is hard to understand, but sometimes painful things like this happen. It's all part of the process of exploration and discovery. It's all part of taking a chance and expanding man's horizons. The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave. The Challenger crew was pulling us into the future, and we'll continue to follow them....

"The crew of the space shuttle Challenger honored us by the manner in which they lived their lives. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved good-bye and "slipped the surly bonds of earth" to "touch the face of God."
President Ronald Reagan

Paranoia

So a few minutes ago, I was checking out my Site Meter to see who is browsing my blog, and which entries are being read today. I noticed that someone from Washington D. C. had clicked on a thing I wrote back in August, about Russian submarines.

Granted, my piece wasn't replete with top-secret details regarding the operation of such submarines. In fact, I made a fairly juvenile comparison to a BMT sub sandwich from Subway. Still, it's weird that someone from D. C. is reading things on my blog about Russian military equipment.

(shiver passes down spine, then scotch takes over and completely relaxes me, life is good again)

Have a nice day!


*
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Now, the real story:


This is a photo I took from my personal spy satellite, of the Russian submarine Kursk, just before it foundered and sank in the icy waters of the Bering Sea. I have high resolution photos of the military operations in which it mysteriously sank, killing everyone on board. I am quite possibly the only human on Earth who knows what actually happened. Breath a word of any of this to the feds, and the kid gets it.

Age old debate

Twenty-five.

Since I was 16, I've felt 25. Physically, mentally, everything. Today, at around 40, I still feel 25. I approach life with the vigor of someone 15 years younger, only with more wisdom and better shoes.

I've never felt 40 until this week, when during a conversation, it was brought to my attention that I could be too old to date a 25 year old... and that maybe, when choosing prospective dates, I should redefine the prospect.

This, of course, is a highly individual opinion. Sure, I haven't been "out there" for a while, I've been married or committed for the last seven years... but when it was suggested by a friend that I might consider 25 "too young," I started feeling my age for the first time in my life.

Depressing. Totally, completely, astonishingly depressing. I mean, come on. I still do goofy, immature things and occasionally make rookie mistakes. I still blow stereo speakers and get zits. I sometimes still have to pump 3 dollars of gas into my tank. I've been known to drink TJ Swann and wear my class ring. I still spend time alone with Penthouse Forum. (no I don't, I'm just kidding) (actually, I'm completely serious) (don't be silly, nobody reads those anymore) (yes they do, I have the latest edition) (no I don't... as far as you know)

I'm not really sure what to believe. Age should be a number only, not a lifestyle, a rule or a restriction. Right? Do I really need to focus only on women 26 and older? Aren't women attracted to slightly more mature men because they are stable, sexy, stimulating and sane? (and maybe a little rich?)

Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher. Michael Douglas/Catherine Zeta-Jones. Humphrey Bogart/Lauren Bacall. Who is to say they're wrong? A friend told me recently that "forty is the new twenty-five." I love it! If it's true, I could probably go as low as 19.

Okay, that was a little extreme. I'm going to throw up now.

Why I love blogging, and people who blog

Honesty.

There are those who blog hatred, BS or spam, but most are here to tell a story, make their mark, or just say their piece... it's important for we Sapiens to know that someone hears us, and hopefully, understands.

A friend of mine, Steve Mays, (also the guy who got me interested in blogging) wrote something on his blog recently, which moved me and bears repeating here. It was a simple sentence, part of a bigger story about a family visit:

"Being with my brother and his family has a calming and healing

effect on me. I suspect that's true for everybody around him."

I don't want to get too mushy here, but I think there is no nobler goal in life than to affect people in this way. Reading Steve's words made me wonder if (and hope) someone, somewhere, feels that way about me.

These kinds of words, and the feelings they provoke, are why I blog. And, why I read blogs like Steve's. Read it when you get a chance. Great balance and honesty.

Vehicular BS

Vehicle licensing is the infected boil on the ass of automobile ownership.

It's time to license my truck. First, I should point out that it's well PAST time to license my truck, that deadline passed in October. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Totally screw you.

I have, through a series of (mostly failed) attempts, managed to acquire copies of my paid personal property receipts for the past two years. I've also dug through boxes, still unpacked from the move last August (again, I know what you are thinking... and again, totally screw you), and found my license renewal form.

Now, I need to dig through my glove box and fish out my proof of insurance forms... which are likely buried beneath the ketchup packets, ice scraper, Taco Bell napkins, pens, post-it notes containing unknown people's phone numbers, half-packs of gum, straws, mints, phone charger cables, condoms, CDs, chapsticks, deposit receipts, withdrawal receipts, change, hair brush, golf tees, flash light, business cards and year-old fortune cookies.

By this time, there's still no light at the end of the tunnel. I now have to wait in line at the emissions testing facility to make sure my (practically new) truck is within the state standards for a clean exhaust. Oh, sure - that rusted-ass 1969 El Camino that just passed me with black smoke pouring out from under the hood is FINE, but my truck... oooh, better double check it. By the time I'm finished, I'd sooner wrap my lips around the exhaust pipe and drift off into a carbon monoxide-induced dirt nap, than do one more goddamn thing toward getting my new plates.

But, nooooo. I still have to get a state vehicle inspection... where they put my (again, practically new) truck up on the rack to see if it is "safe." Guess what... that fucking El Camino with the black smoke, bad tires and no bumpers has new plates on it! I'm guessing my ride is fine.

Only after doing all of these things, will I be allowed to go to the DMV and stand in line for hours so I can get a little green 2006 sticker... which gives me the right to drive on Missouri's shitty, pot-hole filled, disrepaired goddamn roads.

My Sunday Plans

So I am kicked back, watching the playoff games today, when my buddy Bird calls.

He says, "I'm coming over to watch the games, and I'm bringing my laundry."

"Okay, that's fine... but bring beer, I'm getting low."


This is what he brought:

OH NO HE DIH-ANT. I promptly kicked his ass. Nobody makes me drink mule piss and gets away with it.

The following post could contain any of the following - cotton balls, badgers, colitis, hair conditioner, sandpaper, bourbon, nickels, hand puppets...

I told myself when I started this blog that I would avoid the "what I did today" posts, because really, nobody cares. Considering I've broken this rule at a furious pace over the past year, I have simply ceased giving a shit. Therefore:

What I Did This Week: The Clicking You're Hearing is the Sound of People Hitting the "Next Blog" Button

This week, I spent a large portion of my time in Bill's Garage. Both Tuesday and Wednesday nights, a group of friends watched American Idol in the comfort of recliners and lawn chairs, amongst band saws, work benches and lawn care equipment. There is something magical about the atmosphere of Bill's Garage. It's allure is inexplicable, I feel drawn to it's homey feel... and I've even considered the possibility of opening a bar decorated in the garage motif. It's comfortable, there's always a fridge stocked with beer, and something good on the television. Plus, you get to see some interesting dance moves. So it's been a great week from the standpoint of spending time with, and making new, friends.

I was invited to dinner with friends Mike and Paula, at Emily's place... and was treated to amazing lasagna, as Mike and I struggled in vain to remove adware and spyware from Emily's 'puter. If you have removal advice (other than running ad-aware) please share. In many instances, it helps to evoke the phrase WWRJD. (What Would Rick James Do?) Unfortunately, it appears Rick knew nothing about removing spyware.

Last weekend, my friend Tim and I treated ourselves to huge steaks/lobster at Mike Shannon's, and checked out the talent at Johnny's in Soulard. Another night, I went out for drinks and cigars with Gary, who reminded me that our birthdays are coming up and we need to plan a trip to somewhere with a beach and a bar.

Also this week, I had various appointments and meetings, the subjects of which would bore you to suicide.

This weekend, Courtney and I are hanging out and doing general father/daughter things. Those will include:

• Her general reassurances that she's not skipping school these days.
• Inquiries from a father, as to the origin of the dark marks on her neck.
• Her perfunctory excuses for the inutile mush that passes for her boyfriend's brain.
• Goofy faces/gestures made at one another to provoke raucous laughter.
• General childishness and the lack of maturity that is expected from a guy like me.

Have a great weekend, see you Monday!

Dave's Friday Photos

As an illustration of how busy I've been, and what a mental wasteland my brain is right now, here are pictures. Some I took, some I didn't. How's that for crediting someone's work??

Waiting For Spring

New Orleans Humor

Badger

Mushroom

HNT

Happy Half Nekkid Thursday!!!




This is a cheap trick, but I had nothing - my camera is in the shop. It's for the best anyway, I'm retaining more water than New Orleans this week. ;)

To join in, click here, say hello to Osbasso, and enjoy.

Possibly the world's greatest T-shirt

I seriously need to find one of these.

American Idol, American Stocks, American Cheese

Regarding American Idol's premiere last night... WTF?

What were the judges thinking when they gave "Crazy Dave" a pass to Hollywood?? Is he another one of Paula Abdul's poke-buddies? Does he (finally) have difinitive proof of Simon Cowell's gayness?

In case you missed it, this guy's singing was as bad as anyone's, and he gesticulated wildly, as if someone had poured molten lava into his pants. He was totally freak.

And he survived round one.

I guess each season needs it's own version of William Hung??

There was also a guy dressed up as Goldilocks, (who seriously needed a leg-shave) a dude with a Statue of Liberty outfit on, (who was promptly dismissed without being allowed to sing) and a girl who showed cattle. (and sang like one, too)

One Paris-Hilton-looking, too-long-in-the-tanning-bed girl insisted on doing the Gary Owens hand-to-the-ear thing, presumably to help her hear her own voice. Clue for you, darlin'... you suck. Putting your hand over your ear made you look like a tool.

I know American Idol is a pop culture phenomenon, but it sure brings out the crazies. And people who know they can't sing, they just want to be on TV.

Right, Crazy Dave?

---

I sound like a news reporter in this story:

The Tokyo stock exchange was shut down yesterday, when a precipitous drop and trading overload triggered a shut-down mechanism. A scandal involving an internet company called Livedoor caused the event, combined with lower-than-expected profits from Intel and Yahoo.

So the Tokyo exchange lost almost 7 percent this week alone, the American NASDAQ is off nearly one percent today as part of the chain reaction, and I'm out some serious cash... because some geeky Japanese dude underreported losses 15 time zones away?

A global economy is the world's future - but it is a little unnerving when things like this happen. It makes me consider putting my money in socks, instead of stocks... and stuffing them under my bed.

Hoochie coo

As I was opining about the future travails of the offspring of Pitt/Jolie this morning over at Used Hack's blog (which is up for best humorous blog, please GO VOTE for him), I began thinking about the way we're dressing our kids today.

It has become so bad, pop culture has developed a name for them, "prosti-tots." Influenced by Britney Spears and others who came into the spotlight as children, parents are giving in to their kids' demands to be allowed to dress and act like adults... even trampy ones.

Consequently, we have successful stores like Hollister, Deb, etc., new lines of children's make-up, and an entire generation of underaged hoochie-mamas who are dressing like their older, street-walking counterparts.

First, let me tell you what I am NOT: a prudish old man who walked to school barefoot in the snow, worked as a blacksmith and laments the days of the outhouse.

What I AM: the father of a teenage daughter... which, when done correctly, is far harder than snow walking, blacksmithing or sub-zero pooping.

On our shopping trip last weekend, I finally okayed a pair of boots with 2-3 inch heels. She has bugged me about them for a couple of years now - and since she's almost 17, I finally gave in. I did so with a bit of trepedation, a fear of what she will want next, and sadness that she's growing up. It's not like I make her wear bloomers, and fasten her top button... but it was a big step for me - and for her. I know she felt my hesitation. More importantly, I think she appreciated it.

She really is a good girl, and has been a pretty good sport about my conservative clothing requirements. She made it through her younger years without becoming a prosti-tot.

Now, I need to make sure she doesn't become an ad-ho-lescent.



PS - Let me say this. I realize this policy has implications with peer pressure and her ability to "fit in." She handles it well and we compromise frequently, so all parties are satisfied. I am thankful she hasn't gone "goth" on me yet, but at this point, if she chooses to, it's her choice. She's old enough to make those decisions.

Hey, you influence them while you can, then you have to let go and cross your fingers.

Fuzzy kitties

Borrowed from Spinning Girl, here is a questionnaire consisting of things I am sure you are dying to know about me.

Each question has four real answers, and one bullshit answer. It's up to you to figure out which is which.


Four jobs you have had in your life:

Disc Jockey in radio
Disc Jockey in night club (ew)
Wal Mart associate
Mushroom farmer
Dishwasher


Four movies you could watch over and over (and have):

Field of Dreams
Casablanca
Porky's
Sixth Sense
Signs (yeah, I like Shyamalan. So?)


Four places you've lived:

Vallejo, California
Los Angeles, California
Long Dong, Guangxi, China
St. Louis, Missouri
Fayetteville, North Carolina


Four TV shows you love to watch:

Boston Legal
Easy Entertaining with Michael Chiarello
House
Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Curb Your Enthusiasm


Four places you've been on vacation:

Playa del Carmen, Mexico
St. Thomas, USVI
Curacao
Poland, Ohio
Vail/Beaver Creek, Colorado


Four websites you visit daily:

BeaversOnParade.com
MSNBC.com
Stltoday.com
AllAccess.com
ESPN.com


Four of your favorite foods:

Lobster
Anything Chinese
Chili
Tacos
Hummus with a nice bile reduction


Four places you'd rather be right now:

Sydney, Australia
Paris, France
Maui, Hawaii
Reamstown, Pennsylvania
Cabo, Mexico


Four things you're afraid of:

Sewing machines
Scorpions
Fuzzy kitties
Speeding trains
Double black diamond slopes


Four Bloggers you are tagging:

Anyone who can't think of a THING to write today.

Please tell me...

...that they're not really releasing "Big Momma's House 2."

It is the end of the world.

Troubled thoughts from an unseemly mind

Well, dip my balls in cream and squat me in a kitchen full of kittens, it's Friday afternoon... and you know what that means. Time for Dave's Random Musings:

1 - I want a microwave oven invented that, when you flip the wall plug upside down, cools food. Hey Amana, work it out.

2 - Coffee comes in a tin can for one reason - when it's empty, Grandma has a place to put her bacon grease.

3 - My pool guy told me the other day that for the chemical balance of a pool, it's actually a good idea to pee in it now and then. I quickly learned that, for the neighbor's sake, it's best to actually get INTO the pool when you're peeing... or wait until nightfall.

4 - I have discovered that when your package touches cold water, it causes "shrinkage." However, the converse act of squatting in a bowl of boiling water does NOT cause "growage." Only "burnage."

5 - When someone wags their finger at you, it doesn't always mean you've done wrong, sometimes it just indicates a particularly sticky booger.

6 - With aggressive therapy, the appeal of Malaysia and her seductive quicksand, biting flies and flesh mites can be little more than a distant yearn that beckons mostly late at night.

7 - Stopping a fan blade with your tongue tastes pretty dusty.

8 - Charades is a game best played with the unblind.

9 - Amish barn raisings and buggy lacquer festivals can get zany when the bonnets start coming off.

10 - Tomato soup is good, as long as you don't think about how it's made.

---

This was a repost from earlier this year because, well, I got nothin' at the moment.

Half Nekkid Thursday

Crack!

But a crack in... what? Zoom out.

To join us and get half nekkid, go here. Now, do it now. Besides, there are many more

(read: better) nekkid people listed there.

Divorce Letter

Dear God:

If you just happened to click the “next blog” button and found your way here, I wanted to let you know I did not write the following post. Furthermore, I hate what this letter implies about marriage and goodness and virtue. Earlier, when I was rolling around on the floor after reading it, I wasn’t laughing, I was in agony over what this world has become.

Remember, God. I wasn’t laughing. And I didn’t write it.

Your friend,
Dave

A friend emailed this to me almost a year ago, and I’ve only now found the guts to put it on my blog. It’s appalling…-ly funny. And quite crude, so if you’re easily offended, this is your last warning. Look away, now.

---

Dear Connie,

I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact.

In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.

Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says: "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.

She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial.

What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of that before.

I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'd tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.

Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.

Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy."

Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.

And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you? It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can.

If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.

Otherwise, can you let me know where the goddamn remote is?

Love,
Stan

Does anyone have a tampon?

It started innocently enough.

For months, my TiVo has been recording Desperate Housewives. My wife and I set up the timer early last year, when we were together, and totally into the show. Tonight, as I was cleaning off the hard drive and deleting old stuff, I discovered I have the entire new season stored and ready to watch.

Desperate Housewives is a show a man will watch with a woman, but not likely on his own. It's way too much like a soap opera, and not exactly testosterone-friendly viewing. I found it difficult, however, to delete them... because part of me DID enjoy the show - and that Eva Longoria is quite the sexy little tart...

Oh, yes. Eva Longoria...

Where was I? So as my finger was on the DELETE button, I stopped short. I am comfortable with my masculinity, why not have a looksy? Seems I can faintly remember where last season left off... so I hit PLAY.

An hour later, I'm sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire with a pile of pillows and a cup of hot chocolate with Godiva liquer in it. I'm talking to myself, caddily criticizing the slutty outfit Edie Britt is wearing and wondering why Mike Delfino can't do something different with that hair.

It's a wonder I didn't give myself a pedicure and cucumber mask. When I looked around and realized what was happening, it had the same sobering effect as one would get seeing The Rock in a pilates class.

I've deleted the rest of the episodes. I just finished setting up a "season pass" recording of The Man Show. I'm ordering the Outdoor Channel tomorrow morning, and blocking access to Oxygen.

___

Sadly, the story you've just read is true. Except for a couple of minor details. Nobody's perfect... that would be the message I want to get across to my friends, who are likely thinking really absurd thoughts about me right now.

New Rules

I've been a fan of Bill Maher for a long time - although since becoming so political, he's lost a few of his old fans. Isn't it a shame when your favorite comedians ruin their careers by becoming partisan talking-heads? See: Dennis Miller. Both Miller and Maher are still funny, and are the antitheses of Larry the Cable Guy, which is a good thing.

Anyway, part of Maher's show on HBO is a piece called "New Rules." It's so good, he's published a book of the same name. This morning, my friend Gary emailed me some. I am sharing them in the spirit of Monday, because Mondays f-ing suck.

New Rule:
Stop giving me that pop-up ad for Classmates.com! There's a reason you don't talk to people for 25 years. Because you don't particularly like them. Besides, I already know what the captain of the football team is doing these days: mowing my lawn.

New Rule:
Don't eat anything that's served to you out a window unless you're a seagull. People are acting all shocked that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy's chili. Hey, it cost less than a dollar. What did you expect it to contain? Trout? Luckily, it was only a finger! If it was a whole hand, Congress would have voted to keep it alive.

New Rule:
Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged. I have a better description for these kids: lucky bastards.

New Rule:
Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here's how much men care about your eyebrows: do you have two of them? Okay, we're done.

New Rule:
There's no such thing as flavored water. There's a whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket, water, but without that watery taste. Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink. You want flavored water? Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt. That's your flavored water.

New Rule:
Stop f***ing with old people. Target is introducing a redesigned pill bottle that's square, with a bigger label. And the top is now the bottom. And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you just solved the Social Security crisis.

New Rule:
The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a "decaf grande half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one Sweet-n'-Low and one NutraSweet," ooh, you're a huge asshole.

New Rule:
I'm not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing "Enter," verifying the amount, deciding, no, I don't want cash back, and pressing "Enter" again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy. Paper, plastic? I don't have time for that. I've just been called to do a cleanup on Aisle Nine!

New Rule: Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it doesn't make you spiritual. It's right above the crack of your ass and it translates to "beef with broccoli." The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you weren't pregnant. You're not spiritual. You're just high.

New Rule:
Competitive eating isn't a sport. It's one of the seven deadly sins. ESPN recently televised the US Open of Competitive Eating, because watching those "athletes" at the poker table was just too damned exciting. What's next, competitive farting? Oh wait. They're already doing that. It's called "The Howard Stern Show."

New Rule:
I don't need a bigger mega M&M. If I'm extra hungry for M&Ms, I'll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule:
If you're going to insist on making movies based on crappy, old television shows, then you have to give everyone in the Cineplex a remote so we can see what's playing on the other screens. Let's remember the reason something was a television show in the first place is the idea wasn't good enough to be a movie.

New Rule:
No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just for weddings. Now it's for babies and new homes and graduations from rehab. Picking up the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you isn't gift giving, it's the white people version of looting.

New Rule:
No more bathroom attendants. After I zip up, some guy is offering me a towel and a mint like I just had sex with George Michael. I can't even tell if he's supposed to be there, or just some freak with a fetish. I don't want to be on your web cam, dude. I just want to wash my hands.

New Rule:
When I ask how old your toddler is, I don't need to know in months. "27 Months." "He's two," will do just fine. He's not a cheese. And I didn't care in the first place.

Happy people are boring

Happiness and contentment do not mingle well with creativity.  Well, they sometimes mingle, but hardly ever hit it off, and never end up having more than a one-night-stand.

Case in point - Country singer Clint Black's lyrics before meeting Lisa Hartmann:

I still comb my hair the same,

Still like the same cologne...

And I still drive that pickup truck

That the same old bank still owns.

But since you left, everybody says

I'm not the guy they've known...

Lights are on, but nobody's home.

Now, lyrics after their wedding, inspired by happiness, and security and ... oh shit, make it stop:

When I said I do, I meant that I will

'til the end of all time,

Be faithful and true, devoted to you,

That's what I had in mind when I said I do.

What. The. Hell. Jesus, look at yourself Clint. What happened, man? Where's your grit? Where's the heart?

Point is, good creative stuff seems to come from disharmony, discontent, and all those other disses. When people get all happy and soft, they get unbearably boring.


Munch's "The Scream".  Need I say more?

Bloggers are particularly susceptible to the effect. I've been totally hooked on blogs that were very creative and deep. Then the writer gets into a relationship, and the creativity and depth goes right out the window. Why should I lose my reading material because suddenly their lives have meaning?

The examples are endless.  Was JD Salinger an outgoing, happy sort?  Hell no, he was an edgy loner in love with an underage girl, and wanted to be alone in his misery.  Holden Caulfield was Salinger's
young self.

And Hemmingway?  Miserable.  Married and divorced four times, finally he shot himself.  The general themes of his work included war, wilderness and loss.  "I love sleep," he once said.  "My life has a tendency to fall apart when I'm awake."

I have friends who love to have fun. Then they get married, or into a relationship, and I don't hear from them for weeks or months at a time.  Shit, people.  Must you lose your edge just because you have found a steady lay, or someone to be gooshy over?

We should all, each of us, preserve a little corner of our hearts and minds to being totally unhappy. Allow that bitterness to sit there in the corner and fester. It will build character and keep you sharp. It makes the happy times seem even more happy.

Gah!  The sun just came out. There goes my inspiration for this piece.  Laters.

---

Dave Morris is a part-time bitter dude who resides in the midwest, where winters are cold, gray and lifeless. He's not always unhappy, just sometimes. Especially after a country music and Jack Daniels bender.

Phosphorously Funny Stuff

I realize it isn't phosphorous that makes a Lightning Bug's Butt glow, but it worked for the title, so shut up.

Anyway, it's been a while since I laughed so hard. Click this link and read about Bug's Butt's* view on multiple-gear bicycles.

I remember getting a three-speed when I was 7, and thinking I was The Shit until freakin' Kenny Noland got a 10 speed, so I kicked his ass on the playground. That's when I learned that all of the ass-kicking in the world isn't going to get you more gears.

Today, I have an 18 or 20-sumpin' gear and only use the first 5.




Still, SCREW YOU Kenny Noland.


* Lightning Bug's Butt is one of my very favorite daily reads, so stop by and bookmark him. He's what my friend Steve Mays calls TFTTJ, "Too Funny For Their Job." He needs to write full-time.

Half Nekkid Thursday

When this photo was taken, neither Reba nor I were wearing pants. Thus, half nekkid.


Play along by going here. I'd love to see you half nekkid, especially if you're a girl and everything.

Kids these days: Oy vey!

I like to start every new year with a new attitude and new energy. I'm pleased to announce that, so far, here on the 3rd day of January, I am still in that mode.

As I chatted with my daughter last night, discussing which teenage necessities (car, gas, insurance, cell phone, spending money, work/school clothes) Dad was willing to provide, and which ones she will need to earn on her own, it struck me that she needed a bit of a reality check. I don't think the timing could be better with a fresh year starting, so I modified an old list of rules I found on my hard drive. This should provide her a starting point.

***

RULE 1
Life is not fair - quickly familiarize yourself with that concept.

RULE 2
It's important to have confidence and feel good about yourself - but the world won’t care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

RULE 3
You will NOT make 40 thousand dollars a year right out of high school. You won’t be a vice president with a corner office until you earn both.

RULE 4
If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss. They don’t have tenure.

RULE 5
Flipping burgers or mopping floors is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for it - opportunity.

RULE 6
If you mess up, it’s not your parents’ fault. Don’t dwell on, or whine about, your mistakes... learn from them.

RULE 7
Before you were born, your parents weren’t as boring as they are now. Part of how they got that way was from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you are. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent’s generation, try delousing the closet in your bedroom.

RULE 8
Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life has not. In some schools they have abolished failing grades and they’ll give you as many attempts as you want to get it right. This doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

RULE 9
Life is not divided into semesters. You don’t get summers off, and very few employers are interested in helping you find yourself; you'll need to do that on your own time.

RULE 10
Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to their jobs. You won't be made to swallow bugs or worms in real life, but chances are you'll have to swallow your pride and a good portion of crow. THAT is reality.

RULE 11
Be nice to nerds. Chances are you’ll end up working for one.

A new year, sans dignity and self respect

As you may have read below, I've made a resolution to make no more resolutions. Ever.

In that spirit, I now list some things I plan to not do in 2006. Anti-resolutions.

1 - Play Canasta with my feet.

2 - Tongue bathe a badger.

3 - Make love to Bea Arthur. (would be a similar experience to #2)

4 - Cook anything for myself that will give me crippling gas.

5 - Lunch with Scott Baio in Saskatoon.

6 - Upgrade my subscription of Penthouse to the braille version.

7 - Consume rancid, boiled patty sausage with chopsticks.

8 - Quiet, thoughtful embroidery with Christopher Cross.

9 - Shampoo a Backstreet Boy.

10 - Watch Fear Factor.

PS - Speaking of badgers, go watch this.

2006

I resolve to make no more resolutions.

I will live with vigor this year, I will work hard, I will have fun. I will remember that there is no race, no "first place."

"I'm just hanging on while this old world keeps spinning,

And it's good to know it's out of my control.

If there's one thing that I've learned from all this living,

Is that it wouldn't change a thing if I let go."

Jimmy Buffett

***

Happy new year.