Muskrat

No, I’m not going to talk about a dog named Bodger here. After receiving a review from Ask And Ye Shall Receive, I’ve decided to move to a cleaner template, since part of the feedback I received was that the header was stretched and fuzzy.

Well, it can no longer be said that I am an obstinate Muskrat, incapable of constructive direction(eat a dick, Ms. Phlasterer, for your negative comments on my 2nd-grade report card).

Accordingly, I bring forth, on this continent, a new blog, conceived in profanity and dedicated to the proposition that all blogs are created unequal.

And here it is…

www.fathermuskrat.com

Further visitation and commenting on the old blog will result in a recorded, “This blog has been disconnected.  No further information is available about this blog.”  And no one wants that, do we?

This poster hangs in our powder room.  So, whenever Maddie the Toddler and I are in the den, and she belts out an “Oh go potty!” we see this poster.  She’ll sit on the john while I hold her little shoulders to keep her from falling in, and she’ll point to Darth Vader and say, “Scary, Daddy!  Scaaaaaary!”

And I’ll say, “What does Darth Vader say?”
And she’ll say, “Looooook, I yer fodder.”

I thought it finally time to explain to her the lore of Star Wars, hoping to alleviate her fears a bit–you know, see if it’s true that we fear what we don’t understand.  Have a father-daughter moment.  Relive 1977.

So, once she’d flushed, we stood up and stared at the poster ahead.

Me:  “Maddie, that’s Darth Vader, as you know.  And that’s Luke, his son.”
Maddie:  “Darff Bader son Luke.”
Me:  “And that, that’s Princess Leia, Luke’s sister.”
Maddie:  “Princess?!!!  Like Snow White costume?”
Me:  “Yes, like Snow White, but less susceptible to guile.  And, as we learned at Jabba’s hideout, better looking.”
Maddie:  “Princess Leia more pretty than Snow White?”
Me:  “Yes.”
Maddie:  (frown)
Me:  “Look here, this is the Wookie.”
Maddie:  “Poppy’s dog Wookie!”
Me:  “Yes, your grandfather’s dog is named ‘Wookie,’ but this is Chewbacca the Wookie.”
Maddie:  “Okay Daddy.”

Me:  “Okay, so which one is Luke’s sister?”
Maddie:  (points to Chewbacca)
Me:  “No, baby, that’s their friend the Wookie.”
Maddie:  “Luke’s dog…is Wookie.”
Me:  “Something like that.”
Maddie:  “Darff Bader is Scaaary.”
Me:  “Yes.  Yes, he is.  I think we’ll conclude our lesson here, where we started.”

At this point, we adjourned to the den, where I searched for Darth Vader videos on YouTube and found this:

It worked.  Darth is not quite as scary as he was.  If trying to show him as a family man failed, at least portraying him as a conductor made of legos succeeded.

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This post’s “shout out” goes to SciFi Dad, who, I’m certain, has had numerous conversations with his little ones about this subject matter.  And, as always, support Father Muskrat and his friends at this website full of funny blogs!

Remember that post about a 5th grade field trip to Huntsville, Alabama?  Here are some of the searches that are, as a result of that post, leading here:

“dad boner” — There is a cause and effect relationship here, you know.

“why does my boner go up” — Because you told it to, Drill Sergeant!

“briefs boner” — Easier to mask than the “boxers boner.”

“soldier and boner” — Like an officer and gentleman, only better.

“school boner” — More permissible than its eventual manifestation, “work boner.”

“young boner” — Much more prevalent than its ancestor, the “old boner.”

“first boner” — Funny til you get coated in piss from one of these things.

“harry potter boner” — Ask Ginny Weasley, you sick, sick pervert.

“boner” — Kind of anti-climatic now, isn’t it?

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All this filthy talk has got me craving some of the clean humor found on these funny blogs!

The first time I got tossed out of a bar was when a cover band named “Seattle” came to The Ivory Tusk, an 18-and-over watering hole on the University of Alabama Strip.  After a year of ‘Bama bangs and their Grateful Dead, Widespread Panic, or Phish covers at every bar and band party within a 10-mile radius, I’d just about given up on hearing live music in Tuscaloosa.  That changed in October 1994 when I learned from an advertisement in The Crimson White that a cover band playing the type of music I liked was coming to town.  The fact that it was also “50-cent Lite Ice night” took me from excited to giddy.  I donned a checkered flannel and ROTC boots, grabbed my friend Jim Bob, and arrived for the first set.

I was appalled.  There were maybe twenty patrons.  They were standing around looking at each other while the band covered “Black Hole Sun.”

“What a bunch of pussies,” I thought out loud.  I plopped a dollar onto the bar and guzzled my first pair of beers.  “I’m gonna learn these Alabamians how it’s done.”

I approached the stage and jumped into a random kid with a corduroy “Breckenridge” cap just as the band hit the opening chords of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”  He stared at me.  A skinny, tattooed redhead I recognized from the dorm the previous year jumped into me.  It was on.  Our mosh pit was poorly populated but trying to get it right, and gradually, the corn-fed locals figured out what to do.

Until the bouncer walked up and told us to stop.  So, we did.  For about 10 minutes.

I believe I’d drunk $3 worth of beers when the bouncer came up to me again and told me to stop “trying to relive Lollapalooza.”

Me:  “Have you ever even been to Lollapalooza?
Bouncer:  “No, but you can’t do that shit in here.”
Me:  “You’re being a dick.  Lighten up.”
Bouncer:  “Okay, buddy, come with me.”

He grabbed my shoulders and forcefully pushed me towards the back, out the door, and onto the sidewalk; he slammed the door behind me.

I continued walking around to the front of the bar, into the front door, and up to the bar for another dollar’s worth of beer.  Ten minutes later, I was starting another pit as “Territorial Pissings” began.  I jumped as high as I could, rotated in mid-air, and swung my right elbow across the head of some dude who resembled Bull Hurley from Over The Top.  Surprisingly, he laughed and jumped back into me.  I climbed onto the stage, leaped, and landed onto the outstretched hands of my new friend before getting passed around over the heads of the now enthusiastic (and large!) crowd as I headed for the back of the bar and was dropped at the feet of the bouncer.

Bouncer:  “What the hell are you doing back in here?!”
Me:  “What’s your fucking problem, man?”

He then picked me up by the seat of my jeans and the collar of my flannel shirt, carried me to the door, rared my kicking body back, and threw me onto the sidewalk.  One of my classmates was outside taking a smoke break.

Smoking Friend:  “Holy Shit!  I have never seen someone get literally thrown out of a bar before!  You okay?”
Me:  “Neither have I, and yes.”

He helped me onto my feet, and we walked back to the front entrance, where the bouncer was waiting for me next to the girl checking IDs.

Bouncer:  “Don’t even think about it.”

I listened to the remainder of the set from the sidewalk and managed to avoid getting thrown out of bars for the next five years.  Stay tuned for the sequel, The Muskrat Strikes Back (and nearly gets pummeled).
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Enjoy reading about testosterone-driven alcoholics who curse and tell?  Check out these funny blogs!
This post is dedicated to Punk Rock Dad, who, I guarantee, has had his fair share of good mosh pit memories, A Free Man, who wrote this week of his living in Seattle (so I’m going to assume he too has spent some time in the pit), and The Figurehead, who’s been with me in the pits of Lollapalooza.

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Against restrictor plate racing?  Vote at humor-blogs!

There are few endeavors at which I do not excel.  Precious few.  Poker, however, is one of them.  I was pretty good in undergrad (read:  lucky) and won some cash off several friends who drank more than I did, but now that everyone but me has been watching it on TV every week and actually knows some strategy, I comparatively suck.

So, when six lawyers got together after some client visits Thursday night to play, I was the first one out.  Including the girl right out of school who had this sitting in her lap:

I’d had a few drinks when I decided to break the silence the other players were sharing with this conversational start:

“Do any of y’all ever think about what your identity would be if you were a pro wrestler?”

Everyone:

Me:  What about you, Rob (Rob played college football)?  Surely you’ve given it a thought?”

Rob:  “No.”

Everyone Else:

Me:  “Well, I’ve given this a LOT of thought, and I think I’d be THE SHYSTER.  I’d come out in a tight suit like a stripper or something–you know, velcro in all the right places–and my manager would follow behind me carrying a giant plastic screw.  We’d both scream at the crowd, ‘Who’s gonna get screwed by THE SHYSTER tonight?’  Then, I’d rip off the suit and put on a Cherokee warrior headband.  I think I’d do well, after the ‘roids started kicking in.”

Everyone Else (mouths agape):

Rob:  “I think you’ve drunk enough… I’m going to give you some more chips, so that you can go back to playing poker.”

Me:  “And I think y’all are a bunch of damned turds.”

Little do they know that their apathy will only fuel my desire to become THE SHYSTER.  And they will pay.  Oh yes, they will pay.

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If there’s a place I can go and be appreciated for my long term dreams, it’s with the writers of these funny blogs!

I guess all two-year-old girls like Sleeping Beauty and Snow White and Cinderella.  And I suppose all two-year-old girls wear Snow White costumes every day after Halloween and preface their names when introduced to neighbors with “Princess.”  They probably all climb onto their fathers’ laps before bedtime, hand them the same Little Golden Book version of “Snow White” they read the night before, and the night before that, and expect it to be read to them yet again, regardless of the fact that their fathers would rather read “The Poky Little Puppy,” “The Cat in the Hat,” or “Snow.”

I doubt, however, that they all point to the pictures of princes from these stories and say, “Daddy right there” like my princess does.  Knowing I have a narrow window in which I can expect to have this level of influence and trust, I like to make sure these 200-year-old fairy tales end properly.  After all, she’ll be able to read them herself soon.

All stories about princesses are altered such that any rescues by anyone resembling a prince are censored.

When a handsome prince kisses Snow White to break the evil Queen’s spell and then takes her back to his stupid castle in the clouds, Maddie instead hears, “After Daddy kissed Snow White on the cheek, she awoke from the evil Queen’s spell, completed her education, and began her medical practice with the celibate man she met as a resident.  And they lived happily ever after, just down the path from Prince Daddy.  The End.”

Sleeping Beauty wakes up and invites the man who assisted her to manage the law practice she takes over from her father.  She lived happily ever after, enjoying weekends with Daddy in the family lake house.

Cinderella slides her foot into the glass slipper and then publishes what becomes a NY Times best-selling autobiography, allowing her beau to be her editor.  She too lives happily ever after, frequently seeking inspiration via twittering back and forth with Daddy or reading his blog.

Sometimes, Pretty Bride will hear me reading through the monitor, come upstairs, and ask me when I decided the Grimm Brothers needed to host a bra burning party.  “The day I started raising a daughter,” I tell her.
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For other blogs about humor, parenting, censorship, and more humor, check out these funny blogs!

Hello, all.  Pretty Bride here.  Muskrat is trapped in traffic on the way back from a business trip, but wanted to link to the interview he did with Angry Seafood that posted this morning.

Enjoy the gratuitous filth, and have a nice weekend, folks.

This is a cellphone picture I took around 10pm last night from Philips Arena.

So is this.

And this.

This picture, however, was taken at 2am at Mary’s.  Which is why I had to pull over this morning to puke my guts out (again).
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Hangover remedies are found at humor-blogs!

I was sitting here wondering which story to tell tonight when a flashing light on my blackberry signaled a message from my friend Jon, the managing editor at an Atlanta newspaper, wishing me a happy Veterans Day.  I met Jon five years ago at a luncheon; he heard me refer to my recent deployment to Iraq when he was still a staff reporter and told me his employer might want to do a 1000-word piece on my “trip.”  When I sent him copies of the bulk emails I’d sent home, they turned the article into a 3-part cover story that instigated more “letters to the editor” than any piece they’d written, eventually winning an award from the National Newspaper Association.  So, we’ve been friends ever since.

In honor of Nov 11, here are some of the random kindnesses I’ve experienced while in uniform:

1) On the way home from Iraq earlier this year, we had a layover of sorts at Aviano AFB, Italy.  We were corralled into a large hangar and told to wait while they refueled.  No indication was given that this would be anything more than the cattle call to which we’d grown accustomed over the past few days of trying to get from Iraq to the States.  When we walked inside, however, there were tables full of food, drinks, and smiling civilian family members who were there to tell us “thanks” and give us our first non-military-issued meal in months.  It was a very welcomed, and very unexpected, treat.

2) I’ve been out to lunch several times since 2003 and had a random person walk up to me to say “thanks” and even buy my lunch.

3) I’ve walked into gas stations along the interstate after a National Guard drill weekend with my travel cup, seeking coffee, and have had my cash refused.

4) I’ve been told to move to the front of the grocery store line while in uniform (not on a base or post).

5) Southwest Airlines flew me from Nashville to BWI, where we were to catch the military rotator to Kuwait; the stewardesses gave my friend Shane and me all the free Heinekens we could drink, which was a lot.

6) I’ve been walking through the airport when this happened:

7) When Jessica Lynch came to Atlanta with Rick Bragg for a book signing, I decided to go.  When I saw the line, I walked back to my car, pulled out of my parking space, and started to drive away.  But before I turned out of the bookstore parking lot, I braked.  I thought about whether or not I would regret not standing in line for a few minutes to see the girl I’d met several months prior in the desert.  Yes, I would.  I parked again and got in line.  When my wait ended, I re-introduced myself to her, since she was barely coherent when I helped carry her from the ambulance to the C-17 that would carry her from Camp Wolf, Kuwait to Ramstein AFB, Germany.  Rick Bragg, who won a Pulitzer Prize in ‘96, shook my hand and told everyone at the bookstore who I was, and they all stopped what they were doing to give me a standing ovation.

8)  One of my emails home during the ‘03 deployment spoke of being unable to sleep, because, a few minutes before my head hit the cot, three soldiers came into the Emergency Room and found out the man they were inquiring about had died there an hour earlier, and the guy’s “battle buddy” ran outside the vestibule, fell to his knees, and howled his sorrows at the stars above.  Throughout that night, I kept awaking to the sounds of his anguished screams and put myself in his position, wondering how I’d react if Shane were killed.  My dad, a decorated Vietnam War aviator, wrote me back and said he was convinced that I had “become a man now.  And a damned fine one at that.”
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As anyone who stands to pee knows, the #1-ranked team in the country, where I was a third-generation graduate, played an important game Saturday against another ranked opponent that determined the SEC West.  I had a few friends over to watch.  We weren’t paying attention to the toddler.  Apparently, she meandered over to the recycling can, picked up a discarded bottle, and went to town.  And someone took a picture with her cellphone.

I know placing a bottle in front of your kid and taking a picture is clichéd and not really all that funny.  But this one wasn’t staged, which, I think, makes it both better and worse.

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Instead of calling DFCS, check out these humorous blogs!

At 6:50 this morning, I was in Musktopia.  I was frolicking on lake shores, eating shell crackers and kicking some beaver ass.  A previously unnoticed beaver rose from his dam with warpaint on his face and a bow in his hand.  His battle cry of “Ahgopotty Ahgopotty Ahgopotty!” was my only warning.  An arrow came flying towards me, and, as soon as it left the evil beaver’s bow, struck my chest.

I lurched from the bed.  Looked around.  The monitor was blaring from upstairs, “Oh go potty!  Oh go potty!”  I ran upstairs, grabbed the Toddler from her crib, and headed for the toilet.  I felt warm liquid running down my stomach.  Damn that beaver for his accuracy!  But, of course, it wasn’t muskrat blood on my underbelly, but Toddler’s urine.  I was too late.

Not an hour later, I’m on my neighbor’s porch in my pajamas while our two dogs pee in one another’s yards.  I’m hearing about the redneck bar they visited last night in Gwinnett County.  The Toddler is in her night shirt and is standing in the neighbor’s grass.  Her face scrunches.

Me:  “Maddie, what’re you doing?”
Toddler:  “I go poop.”
Me:  “NOOOOOOOO!  You do not poop in our neighbor’s yard!  Hold it while we run to the toilet, okay?”
Toddler:  “No!  I poop right here, Daddy.”
Erric the Neighbor:  “It’s not like your Dad doesn’t shit in our yard every night.”

I run inside, grab a plastic grocery store bag from our reservoir, and head back outside.

Pretty Bride:  “Winnie crapped in the neighbor’s yard again, I see?”
Me:  “Nope.  Your daughter did.”

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For other blogs featuring potty humor, check out these humorous blogs!

1,576,800 minutes.  1,576,800 moments so dear.  1,576,800 minutes–how do you measure, measure 3 years? In flowers planted, plantings killed, children conceived*, dogs adopted, miles driven, planes boarded, moments stolen, deployments endured, laughter shared, jokes created, basements finished, mountains climbed, rooms painted, blog posts published, rules broken, neighbors offended, friends made, friends alienated, funerals attended, weddings celebrated, kilometers sprinted, cities explored, gifts given, gifts received, children disciplined, children lauded, success realized, failures suffered, mortgages paid, cars repaired, vacations taken, vacations canceled, dreams materialized, dreams interrupted, shortcomings overlooked, taxes increased, taxes cut, sleep cycles shortened, admiration reciprocated, gaffes broadcast, secrets kept, skills showcased, cocktails shaken, toddies stirred, parties hosted, parties crashed, promises renewed?  In 1,576,800 minutes, how do you measure 3 years in the life?

Three years ago, Pretty Bride and I eloped after finding out I’d be deployed to either Iraq (again) or to Andrews AFB in January 2006.  She’d flown in from her PhD program in archeology at Penn State to see David Gray with me at the Fox Theatre.  Mr. Gray got sick, so instead of attending a concert, we called my pastor friend, Charlie, who ran a church 35 miles east of town to see if we could get hitched in his backyard.  Being a good man from Alabama who knew my penchant for spontaneity, he said “sure.”

We had 1 day before PB had to fly back to PA.  So, on 11/7/05, we got up, bought a dress (2 stores visited), picked and bought rings (8 stores visited), got my dog vaccinated, and headed east on I-20 by the planned time.  My cell rang, and Charlie asked if I had gotten the marriage certificate.

Me:  “I thought you had that.  I figured it came in your ‘preacher kit’.”
Charlie:  “Nope.  Wish it did.  You need to go to your county courthouse and get it.
Me:  “Oh shit.”
Charlie:  “What?”
Me:   “Dadgummit.  Time for a U-turn.”

We turned around, parked illegally, and sprinted into the Fulton County courthouse.  I was terrified I’d see someone I knew and told PB that if I suddenly dropped to the floor as if I’d dropped something, it was because I’d seen a colleague (I’d told my employer I’d been “held up by some events precipitated through the  National Guard” that day, which was sorta true, depending on your definition of “events precipitated”).  We got the piece of paper.  Folks in line for concealed weapons permits took longer to finish than we did.

Drove to Covington, GA and got hitched in my buddy’s backyard.  Stayed in tux and dress to freak out a couple friends with the news afterward and went to a kickass dinner.  Cried when I put her on the plane the next day but knew I’d see her Thanksgiving break.

By the time I was 30, I’d been invited to 49 weddings.  My 50th wedding was my least populated but my most enjoyable.  And, it was nice giving societal expectations a great big middle finger.

*both photos depict the days on which children were conceived.

I decided last night that I’d challenge the laws governing the space-time continuum and actually talk, in person, to some other bloggers from Atlanta.  I know, you’re thinking the results could very well mirror Jennifer McFly’s meeting her 30-years-ago self, which resulted in syncope, but could very well have resulted in mass catastrophe.  I thought the risk worth taking.

So, I went to the bar for the meeting I’d read about on the APWBWGTTD website and saw several tables full of people playing trivia.  Great.  I didn’t particularly want to walk up to each table and ask, “Hey, so, like, do you blog?” so I ordered a Negro Modelo and sat at a small table by myself to twitter and, perhaps, be able to pick out the trivia participants who looked like bloggers.  One table was entirely female, so I eliminated them.  Another table only had a pair of participants, so I eliminated them.  The largest group with mixed genders seemed promising, so I sat next to them. 

One of the guys asked, “Hey, you a blogger?” 
Me:  “Nope.  I’m a lonely alcoholic who makes love to his blackberry when away from his tonic and gin.  Want to share a drink I call ‘lonliness’?” 

I scooted towards the group and shook a couple hands. 

New aquaintance:  “So, what’s your blog about?  Politics?”
Me:  “It’s sort of a humor blog…you know, about parenting, lawyering, soldiering, my childhood…”
New aquaintance:  “You don’t look very funny.  You’re white.  And skinny.”
Me:  “I hear you, buddy.  But I do love cocaine and hookers!  Doesn’t that count for something?”
New acquaintance:  “No.”

I decided to hang around another couple hours, and we actually won the trivia contest in a brilliant come-from-behind on the last question (gambling the full 20 points) because I was the only person in the bar who remembered who ran with Ross Perot in ‘92.  Damn right it was a good day.  Looking forward to next month’s meeting.

Just the other day, I received the following “direct message” via Twitter from a tweeter named Cary:
“Any particular reason you don’t follow Lisa? I know, this is weird.”

To which I replied:
“Nope. Sometimes I just don’t take the time to think about whether I’ll reciprocate or not.”
And I went back to working.

At the end of the day, I decided to follow her, and I got this message from Cary:
“Thanks! There was a complex in the making…”

And this message from Lisa:
“thanks for the follow,(sic) we have been twittering about you all day!”

Really?  All fucking day?  I looked at their archived tweets.  Sure enough, they’d been publicly (to their followers, at least) speculating all day as to the rationale for the lack of followership from a litigious rodent.  On a weekday.  When I clicked the evidently coveted “follow” button, a tired reference to “muskrat love” appeared on my screen.

The next day, I un-followed both of them.  I follow Twitter on my blackberry, so if you write too frequently, I can’t keep up with the other folks I enjoy, and I’m not going to follow you.  It ain’t personal.

Incidentally, Cary and Lisa stopped following me a day or two later.  I like to think it was a much-discussed, tandem decision about which they both derived much satisfaction.  I hope the phrase “this’ll show ‘em” was typed.

My response:  EAT A DICK.  Because if you only add friends to a 140-character messenger service so that you can prop up your ego by piling up strangers who might give a damn what you’re doing, your time can better be spent chomping a phallus.  Just not mine.

And by the way, Lisa, a semicolon goes between independent clauses, not a comma.

In Fall 1985, my elementary school sent us to Huntsville, Alabama to the  U.S. Space & Rocket Center.  Here’s Chad, the kid who sat next to me on the bus ride from Nashville:

He also sat next to me on a high school field trip to Washington, D.C. in Spring 1992:

He no longer poses like this or signs yearbooks with “Your friend Chad, otherwise known as ‘Rocky Balboa’.”

We walked around the museum and rode some centrifuge-like vehicle that spun us around and made the wheeled contraption to which I was strapped rise above the floor a few feet, consistent with what the ride’s operator told us to expect if any of us were “particularly light” (which I translated to mean, “little pussyboys”).

There was a monkey behind glass that was either Miss Baker or one of her stunt doubles.  I was watching her sit on a limb for a minute when I noticed one of my classmates, Emily Coke, standing directly across from me.  She was also watching Miss Baker, and I was watching her.  She noticed me looking her way through the glass and smiled.  I looked away.

Our next group activity was to go into the movie theater and watch some film about how Kennedy got us on the moon.  Chad ended up in the row in front of me next to his girlfriend, Sarah.  I positioned myself in line behind Emily.

Emily and I had a bit of a history.  Her best friend Suzanne had asked whom I liked at the end of fourth grade, and I’d responded with a code:  Wms, Ckgjw.  Each letter used was two letters ahead of the letter intended.  I’d given her what I thought was an adequate key, that “W=Y,” but she still struggled with it for a week or so until I finally gave up losing sleep and told Suzanne that it meant “You, Emily,” so that she could tell Emily (a CIA codebreaker Emily is not).  We had not spoken about my cryptic message, however, as school had ended, and fifth grade meant different teachers.

The lights lowered.  Emily reached down with her left hand and grabbed my right hand.  My heart rate tripled.  Except for a couple breaks to wipe off the sweat on my Jams, they stayed together.

The movie ended; Emily released my hand, and everyone but me stood up to walk outside.

Chad:  “Aren’t you coming outside?  I think they got dippin’ dots out there!”
Me:  “Um, just a minute…”

I had a boner.  I held my gold Kodak Disc camera over my crotch to hide the inordinate amount of pleasure I’d experienced from holding a girl’s hand.

It wouldn’t go away.  Emily was waiting on me at the end of the row, so I slowly stood up, tucked my erect soldier into the elastic waistband of my Fruit of the Loom briefs, and walked towards the exit.

Emily:  “Hey, you have a camera!  Sarah, Will you take a picture of us?”
Me:  “Um, don’t you have a camera?”
Emily:  “No.  Besides, yours is right there in your hand.  Why don’t you let Sarah take our picture together?”

Sarah grabbed my camera as I frantically placed my hands over my crotch like soccer players do before a free kick on the goal.

Emily (putting her arm around my shoulder to pose):  “Aren’t you going to put your arm around me?”
Me (desperately trying to picture our wrinkly old principal):  “Oh-Okay.”

And there we were.  Arm in arm, posing in front of the U.S. Space & Rocket Center, Emily looking at the camera, and me looking at my crotch.

I figure if my mancave can win me $100, perhaps my toddler can bring me some dough too.  Here’s the little one, competing in the “2 and under” category for cutest Halloween picture in the Parent Bloggers Network giveaway, sponsored by Blurb.com.

Not that they even came close to competing with my little one, but some of the neighbors were also out with their youngsters, including the little boy from across the street who’s always nosing around my daughter without invitation.

Coward.

And, just in case you’re wondering if the gay couple was feeling left out with no urchins to dress up, the answer is “no, they were not.”

And just in case you were wondering if all the costumes on our street were cute and sweet, the answer is “no, they were not.”

Halloween 2007:  I’m stuck in Iraq but dress like Bret Michaels from Poison, since he’d just performed for us a few weeks prior.  I win “sexiest costume.”  Damn right I deserved it.

Halloween 2006:  My brother and I are Madonna with her recently adopted boy from Africa, David, and a barb-pierced Steve Irwin.  Several people at the party we attended were offended.  They thought Irwin was distasteful because he was dead and that the stuffed monkey as an African baby was distasteful on principle.  I told them to kindly eat a dick, as I didn’t have time to go buy a baby doll, and this was the closest thing in my closet to a baby.

Halloween 2004:  I was an Abu Ghraib prisoner in bloody POW garb and a dog chain; my friend was Lynndie England in my desert camo uniform (DCU).  People at the party were offended by this costume, too.  This could very well by my favorite.

Halloween 1997:  My friend and I are foosball players.  It’s hard to see, but there’s a broomstick wrapped in tin foil attached to our backs.  We win first place at the IBM costume contest that day.  I get a $50 giftcard to some shitty ass strip mall that I blow on contraceptives and narcotics.

Halloween 1992:  I had just let my friend give me a mohawk to start off my senior year of high school wrestling.  I’m wearing a buckskin outfit my Dad made from Bambi’s father (whom he shot and skinned himself) and am an Indian, back when one could get away with dressing like an Indian without mass protest.

“I was supposed to stay in utero another 7 days, you bunch of assholes!”

And there you have it.
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Blogs with words are found in this list of humorous blogs!

I had just mowed our 1-acre yard on a late-April Saturday in 1987.  Suddenly, I dropped my ice water.  A blond-haired, blue-eyed 6th grader was pedaling her Schwinn bicycle by our house.  I was pretty sure I recognized her from school–she was the new girl…Julie Scott?  Yeah, that’s right…she’d just moved from Colorado.  I wondered if she’d recognize me, too.  She did.  Slight, quick waive.  Blush.  I looked away.  My Dad smiled and went on pulling weeds in the nearby planting bed.

Me:  “Dad, am I done with the yard?”
Dad:  (smiling wryly) “Sure.  Why, you got something better to do with your afternoon?”
Me:  “I do now.”

I tore off to the garage, hopped on my blue Mongoose, and followed her, catching up after half a mile.

Me:  “Hey…I was…uh…riding a bit and…don’t you ride my bus?”
Julie:  “Yeah.  I decided to see the new neighborhood a little.  Wanna follow?  I’m headed back to get some lemonade.”
Me:  HELL YEAH!  Sure!  Thanks!

We got to her house and leaned our bikes on the garage door.

Julie:  “You like baseball?”
Me:  (lying) “Sure!”
Julie:  “I’ve played softball for years; both my brothers play baseball for the highschool.”
Me:  “Yeah, I, uh, played t-ball one year with my church in kindergarten.”

I borrowed a glove and stood in her backyard, the two of us tossing a softball back and forth while talking about our families’ moves, our siblings, music we liked to hear on 96 Kiss and Y107, and how great “Top Gun” and “Back to the Future” were at the theater.

Julie noticed that I stopped throwing the ball when I talked about our family’s many moves and my frustration with making new friends every couple years.
Julie:  “Could you go back to throwing the ball again?”
Me:  “Um, sure.”

We stopped playing catch and went into the kitchen for the promised lemonade.  Her older brother walked in.

Giant Big Brother:  “Hey, I’m Chet.  How are you (extending hand)?”
Me:  “Fine.”
Giant Big Brother:  “Are you in Julie’s class?”
Me:  “Yes.”
Giant Big Brother:  “‘Cause you’re kinda small for a 6th-grader…”
Me:  “Maybe, but I’m strong for my size.  And fast, you big oaf!”
Giant Big Brother:  “Small but mighty, hmm?  That’s good.  Well, see you guys later.”

Julie:  “I’m gonna run upstairs…hey, wanna see my room?”
Me:  “Is a frog’s ass water tight?  Okay.”

She went into her bathroom and started brushing her hair.  I stood in her room–my first time in a girl’s bedroom–and looked around at stuffed animals and softball trophies.  Y107 was playing Crowded House. “Don’t Dream It’s Over” was the only sound.

Julie:  “Come here.  I want to brush your hair, too.”

I stood in front of her bathroom mirror, the clock radio continuing with Crowded House’s instructions about our dreams, and she lifted her comb to my curly blond hair.

I figured this was a great time to initiate our first kiss.

It wasn’t.

Julie:  “I don’t even know your last name…”
Me:  “Daniels.”  I moved in again.
Julie:  “Maybe we should go back outside…”

I hung my head and followed her out her room, down the stairs, across the deck, into the back yard, and onto my Mongoose; I headed home.

The next several weeks were busy with achievement tests and elementary school graduation activities, so I never quite got another chance to take our relationship past sitting next to each other on the school bus or sitting across from one another at lunch.

A couple days after sixth grade ended, I got the phonecall from an unidentified male voice telling me Julie wanted to break up and go steady with David Simon instead.  I called Julie to ask if it was true.

Julie:  “Well, like, you didn’t call me for two days.  I didn’t know what the deal was.”
Me:  “We had a thunderstorm.  My Mom doesn’t let me talk on the phone when it’s lightning out.  I figured you’d understand.”
Julie:  “Um, well, I already told David I was going to go with him now, so, I guess I…I’m sorry.”

I then realized she’d be spending the summer tossing softballs with David, brushing David’s hair, and pulling off David’s stupid fucking Wisconsin badgers sweatshirt to Crowded House on Y107.  And I hated the both of them indefinitely.

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Before I turned to the bottle, I turned to humorous blogs for lifted spirits.  So should you!