Leave Them Kids Alone

In my local paper, I spotted an ad for an ADHD study conducted by a local research consortium. And just what, exactly, might indicate ADHD in your 6-12 year old?

• Has difficulty paying attention at home or in school.
  • I say, who doesn’t? I had teachers who could make sex ed boring.
• Can’t sit still and is easily distracted, can’t play quietly.
  • I say, kids who play quietly belong in horror films.
• Does not seem to listen, loses things, interrupts others.
  • I say, this describes most women, not children (just kidding, ladies).
• Has trouble taking turns, cannot stay seated, fidgety.
  • I say, this sounds like the complaining of a Dickens villain.

I would be worried if my children didn’t show such symptoms, which are nothing more than symptoms of childhood. Indeed, if your child showed the exact opposite of the above “symptoms,” they’d call your child in for an autism study. You can’t win.

I quote no less an expert than George Carlin: “You wanna help your kids? Leave them the f*ck alone!!!“

"Damn Near Killed ‘Em"

• I love scented candles. My current favorite is called vanilla sugar. The aroma gets me all hot and bothered. The fun thing about getting a new candle is sneaking up behind my wife and saying “Hey, smell this.”
• I was in a giant retail store, and I saw a young girl begging her mother to get her a snow cone machine. The mother resisted, and eventually said “oh, all right.” The pure joy on that little girl’s face made me smile. It’s a good lesson for me and other parents. Sometimes, you have to say to hell with tradition and expectations and habit and say “oh, all right.”
• We had our home theater projector set up to watch a movie (Used Cars “We’re blowing the shit out of high prices!”), and when we shut it off, the TV (tuned to HBO) came back on, and we were greeted to the sight of a naked woman kneeling with another woman putting her hand in a very dark place. It was a Real Sex episode about butt lovin’. There were a bunch of couples exploring themselves and each other, and one geek in a cardigan taking measurements and walking around with a magnifying glass or some shit (pardon the expression). It was hard to turn away, butt, I mean but at least I got to use the old joke “rectum? damn near killed ‘em!” about fifty times. Mrs. Jimmy was appreciative, I’m sure.
• Yesterday, I had lunch with these two beautiful toddler girls. They are my daughters, but something has happened. They sit at the table to eat. No more high chairs. They drink out of regular cups and use silverware and daintily wipe their mouths with a napkin. What happened to the helpless little twitching creatures that could fit in the crook of my arm?
• We watched Memoirs of a Geisha finally. If you love beauty, you must see this film, preferrably on a big screen. The story is beautiful, the cinematography is beautiful, the scenery is beautiful, the people are beautiful. I loved it. A perfect movie.
• Bumpersticker spotted on a, um, bumper: “Black on Black Love . . . It’s not a crime.” I don’t get it.
• I had to drive almost to hell and back to get a few simple fireworks for our daughters to enjoy. Fireworks are illegal in the People’s Republic of Omaha. You’ll be damned if you can find a diving board at a swimming pool, or the freedom to ride a bike without a suit of armor so you can feel the wind in your face, or the option of buying enough cold medicine for your family. I’m so glad the busybodies of the nannystate are working so hard to protect me from myself. Soon I will receive a certificate absolving me of any responsibility for myself whatsoever.

Have a great weekend.

A Funny Thing Happened at the Store . . .

• I was in the checkout lane at the grocery store earlier today, and the young lady behind the counter wished me a “Happy Father’s Day.” Reflexively, I said, “You, too!” Then I had to explain that I didn’t mean to imply that she was somebody’s father.
• I was in another checkout lane today, and when the checker was done scanning my items, she pointed to the items belonging to the lady behind me and asked if we were together. I said no, then turned to the lady and said “we must make a convincing couple.” She gasped, laughed, harrumphed, hiccuped, wheezed and said “I’m much too old for you.” Boy, that was much more fun than I had anticipated.
• Speaking of music: I heard “Wild, Wild West” on the radio today, and took note of the lyric “heading for the 90s, living in the wild, wild west.” Crickey, remember when we were “heading for the 90s”? The End of the Innocence.
• I heard Jewel’s “You Were Meant for Me” in the grocery store, and she must have re-recorded the song. She sounded like she was drunk, stoned and crying at the same time. It was very, very bad.
• I’ve decided that “Won’t Get Fooled Again” is the most perfect rock song ever. The evidence: Rebellious lyrics (“the hypnotized never lie”), thundering bass line, the primal scream, meaty guitar riffs, Keith Moon drum solo. I rest my case.
• A lesbian artist in Ontario is serving up breast milk cocktails. No, really. She will interview all donors to decide the right type of glass to use to highlight the uniqueness of each woman’s milk. Make mine a pina colada.
• I saw a plump girl in the store today wearing a (too small) shirt that read “Husky Cheerleader.” Honey, I’d change mascots if I were you.
• Well, here I am. A dad. Only creatures as proud and tough as us could survive repeated (accidental) blows to the testicles. Here’s to the dads.

Well, I’m off to watch a Disney movie with my family. Life is good. Have a great weekend.

"Flowers Cry in the Morning"

• Wow. Times flies. I’ve been busy nonstop for the last few days, and I’ve been remiss in keeping up with y’all, but now I’m here to make up for it. It’s late. The family is in bed, and there’s no one here to supervise me. I believe I’ll borrow Tree’s “stream-of-consciousness” blogging. Here goes:
• I hate protesters. The obnoxious kind. I hate their chanting and yelling and cute little rhyming slogans that wouldn’t withstand a ounce of logical scrutiny and their over-the-top emotionalism and downright intimidation. I don’t care what their results are.
• Although there is no science to back this up that I’m aware of, I remain convinced that putting hands on a steering wheel causes a serious rotting of the brain cells. Examples are too numerous to mention.
• My daughter, Laura, likes to sing, and she’ll just sing out any combination of words that come to mind. Yesterday morning, she suddenly sang out, “flowers cry in the morning.” She’s a singer and a poet!
• Today, I was in the grocery store, and got stuck behind “can’t make up her mind woman.” They’re just jugs of milk, lady, pick one. Then I had the thought that maybe people like that have to choose carefully, because the asshole she’s married to might beat the shit out of her if she makes the wrong choice. Kind of morbid, I know, but I still wonder.
• Well, I’m up way too late. I’ll see all of you on my rounds.

Click It or Ticket . . . I Say "Suck It"

In the mid-90’s, two friends and I were on our way home from a Dwight Yoakam concert in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We crested a hill, and drove head-on into a Black Angus bull loitering in the middle of the highway. My seat belt held me tight, or I would have flown deep into the night. We made it to the side of the road. None of us had ever been in an accident where air bags were deployed, so we mistook the floating powder for smoke and piled out of the car. As we stood on the highway, gathering our wits, we noticed that the bull we’d struck at 65 mph had gotten up and walked off, no doubt with a terrible sideache.

I tell you that little anecdote to assure you that I am a dyed-in-the-wool believer in seatbelt use. However, I do not agree with mandatory seatbelt laws. Seatbelt usage is a personal choice, and the decision not to use one is (or should be) a personal choice. You risk only your own life if you choose not to buckle up. I’m tired of these busybodies who think they need to force laws that require the police to save me from myself. I’m sick to hell of reading accident reports that make a point of noting that the dead at an accident scene weren’t buckled up, as if they deserved to die.

I say, if we’re going to turn the state into everyone’s mommy and daddy, let’s go the whole route. In addition to seatbelt check points, how about cholesterol check points? I want these overweight seat belt advocates to have their cholesterol checked by police. After all, someone with heart disease careening across six lanes of traffic during a heart attack is a far greater threat to public health than one individual being thrown from his vehicle. Wouldn’t you agree? How about home inspections to make sure we aren’t consuming too much alcohol? How about regulating tobacco use? How about mandatory exercise times, supervised by the police? Don’t think there aren’t people who would advocate all of the above. Some people love to tell others how to live.

What prompted this little rant was a news item I read before the holiday weekend. In Omaha, women and children are being abducted, murdered and fished out of the river with alarming frequency lately, so imagine my rage at learning that the Omaha Police were devoting five police officers and a police sergeant . . . to seatbelt enforcement.

Glad we got our fuckin’ priorities straight.

Important Notice

As you can see by looking around you, Spring has sprung, and one of my favorite parts of Spring’s return is that it’s time for the ladies to break out the tank-tops, shorts and sandals. Unfortunately, it also means that tank-tops, shorts and sandals are back for the men.

About the sandals, fellas. Unless you’re going to the beach or working in your yard (and I say “you” because I take care of my feet), you have no business wearing sandals. Women’s feet are lovely, polished and pampered. Most men’s feet look like they stomp shit barefoot for a living. Trust me, Bruno, no one wants to see your cracked, gnarled, dirt-encrusted, fungus-ridden dogs at anytime. If you want to improve, I can assure you that there is no law—state for federal—that forbids you from touching your feet with a bar of soap.

Please keep ‘em covered. Please.

What Would Scooby Doo?

Saw that on a bumpersticker.

• I watched that “Funniest Home Videos” show Sunday. If I see one more video of a dog (or something else) terrifying a little kid who runs around screaming while the dad laughs and videotapes it, I’m gonna fucking kill someone. That shit ain’t funny.
• In my Film Studies class, and I noticed that nearly everyone, during down time before class, is on a cell phone, laptop, iPod, you name it. There I am with a book of poetry, feeling like an old fart.
• Saw a kid wearing a red (how apt) ski cap with Che Guevara on it. Putting aside the fact that Che was a mass murderer, he also hated capitalism. I thought about asking the kid if he thought Che would approve of having his image marketed on hats, T-shirts and thongs. It reminded me of the time I saw a death penalty protester on TV wearing a Che shirt. Brother, that’s irony.
• My writing teacher told me that the new (or forthcoming) Chuck Palahniuk book is about men who dress in drag, go to clubs and sing Carol Channing songs, and charge the patrons $10 a pop to punch them in the face; they keep doing it until they can’t take any more punches. Supposedly, it’s based on real people. If that didn’t make you laugh your ass off, you need to get the hell out of here.

The Week That Was

• A bumpersticker I saw yesterday: “Where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?”
• I’m beginning to think that Big Brother (the dictator, not the show) may not be such a bad idea. All around there are plenty of indications that people are completely incapable of handling freedom. I’m no exception. I look down at the steadily growing spare tire around my waist and realize that I can’t be trusted to maintain my own body. Take my advice, everybody, and get in on a job that will give you power in the totalitarian future. They’ll love us.
• Today is St. Patrick’s Day, and since it falls on a Friday, the Archbishop of Omaha gave Catholics permission to eat meat so they can have their corned beef. I can’t imagine needing permission to eat what I want, but then again, I refer you to the point above.
• Speaking of Catholics, I don’t mean to offend, but I don’t understand some of the things you give up for Lent. Some that I’ve heard over the years: chocolate, sugar, sugared soda, caffeine, usually food of some kind. My dad and I were discussing this and he asked, “how come you never hear of people swearing off gossip or hypocrisy or dishonesty?” Indeed.
• Speaking of movies, I finally saw “Walk the Line,” the Johnny Cash movie. I highly recommend it. Joaquin Phoenix is nothing short of amazing. It goes way beyond a simple impression of a legend. It reminded me of Anthony Hopkins in “Nixon,” where they don’t really look like the historical subjects they’re portraying, but you believe every second of it. The actors did their own singing, which is a huge risk, but they pull it off. I read a review that claimed I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Phoenix’s singing and Cash’s. That’s bullshit, but still a great performance.
• I promise never again to post a picture of my ass, unless you’d like to see the pics we took after a chocolate lab bit me on the tushie.
• And finally, I’d like to share a moment with my daughter, Laura, that I’m sure I’ll remember on my deathbed:

Have a great weekend.

A Note to eBay Sellers

I’m getting tired of you lazy-ass sellers on eBay. Some sellers are very good and professional, but too many of you need the following advice:

• When I’m buying something from you, that makes you the merchant and me the customer, and it is up to you to make sure I’m satisfied with the transaction. Therefore, don’t sit around waiting for me to leave you positive feedback before you leave your own. If I’ve paid for the item, I’ve satisfied my obligations as a buyer and you have no good reason to hold back feedback.
• It doesn’t cost $8 to ship a DVD. If you want a guaranteed amount for your item, add it to the opening bid, but don’t insult me with outrageously inflated shipping costs.
• When I have purchased something, I expect an email within 2 business days thanking me for my purchase and informing me when the item will be shipped. I should not have to babysit you and contact you after a week to find out where the hell my purchase is. If there’s a delay, fine. Not a problem. Just keep me in the know.
• Learn to write a decent description.
• Learn some grammar.
• WRITING IN ALL CAPS IS THE MARK OF AN AMATEUR!!!!!! Having a list of terms and conditions that reads longer than War and Peace is the mark of an idiot. Having terms and conditions that are full of terse commands to the buyer is the mark of an asshole.
• Learn to spell. I’ve seen spelling on eBay that looks like someone let their cat walk across the keyboard. Actual quote: “Please do not bid if you DONNOT agree the above terms . . .” Okay, I willn’t bid for that case. Stupid ass.
• Do some market research. I’m not about to pay $30 (plus shipping) for a used book I can get new for $20. Don’t waste space with such a dipshit listing.

I suppose I could just say “be considerate” or “follow the Golden Rule,” but what fun would that be? Shape up.

The Week That Was

Sorry I’ve been a little erratic with my postings lately. Schoolwork has been consuming my free time, but I’ve gotten over the hump for now.

• Roger Friedman of Fox News has again criticized Paul McCartney for performing “Helter Skelter.” I didn’t see it, but Sir Paul apparently sang it on the Grammy’s the other night. I’m getting tired of repeating myself on this, but here we go: The song does not belong to Charles Manson. Only a spineless pussy would allow the song to go down in history as the anthem of Manson’s insane race war (“Helter Skelter” is actually about an amusement park ride). McCartney has every right to sing it, and if you are so fragile that you have to hide under your bed in fear of Manson everytime you hear it, go right ahead, just remember not to ever come out. And no, I don’t venerate Chuckie Manson as some sort of counter-culture hero. Nothing to admire about a man who engineers the stabbing death of an 8-months pregnant woman, among others. I’ll piss on his grave if the scrawny little scumbag ever gets around to dying, and if I see any naive Manson-worshippers kneeling at his gravesite, I’ll piss on them, too.
• Has anyone noticed that the book-blurbs (those little quotes on the book flap that tell you how great a book is) are getting a little silly? Here’s a few I’ve noticed: “unadulteratedly terrifying,” “page-turningly effective, “a hoot of a whodunit,” and the most shopworn of them all, “unputdownable.”
• Today I turn 35, and am now officially old enough to run for president. I’d appreciate your vote. Any policy questions, just ask.

It could happen . . .