Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Greg has two children, a second grade girl named Shayna, and a kindergarten boy named CJ. I was at Greg's house guzzlin' a Moosehead, when Greg says, "CJ, show Mr. W. your karate." So CJ gets in a little boy's long stance and starts blocking Greg's punches. I can tell Greg is proud of little CJ. He's a blockin' Daddy's punches left and right and I'm dazzled. I'm complimenting little CJ with remarks like, "Look at him go! That's a karate man! Look at those blocked punches! What a karate man!"
All this time Shayna is just watching and observing, but she gets to thinking, "Hmmm. Why is little CJ gettin' all the attention? I'm special, too. What is it that I, Daddy's Delicate Little Flower, can do to bedazzle Mr. W.? I need the spotlight on me. Think, girl, think!"
I guess it hit her, for about two minutes later she comes into the room and yells, "Mr. W.! Look what I can do!!" She then proceeds to tug at the neck of her blouse with her right hand, pulling the V-neck opening all the way over to her right bicep. She then slips her left hand under her right armpit, and then slams her right elbow down to her right side and makes what is known as an armpit fart. She then proceeds to rip off seven or eight prize winners in a row. I haven't seen anyone do that in years! I am floored, and proceed to lavish praise on Shayna.
"Shayna, I haven't seen or heard an armpit fart in years! Those are some beauties! You are incredible! I haven't done one in years. Wait a minute. Let me try."
I then proceed to barely make an air noise, much less a little ripper, and then I discover that my left hand now stinks, and I am taken aback and embarrassed. Oh, I could've blamed the "dry heat" of New Mexico. I learned armpit farts back in the '50's in a Houston, Texas "summer sauna," fer cryin' out loud, when your armpit was drippin' wet and you could goose it loud enough to be heard across the yard. But I accepted defeat, resigned myself to the accomplishments of a new generation of armpit farters, told her she is a much better armpit farter than I am, and Shayna proudly walked off, but not until she had goosed her armpit a dozen more times, jus' fer show. For Shayna, mission accomplished!
I look over at Greg and say, "I wonder who taught her that?" Greg says, "That's Shayna, my Delicate Little Flower!"
Monday, July 14, 2008
The down side is that I needed the money so I am teaching summer school, but that's easy. The class is full of children who either can't or won't learn. I have four weeks to fix them? I don't think so!
Because it's summer, I have no kids around to provide me fodder for blogs, so I am going to throw out a few ideas that don't have anything to do with kids.
By the way, I wrote these with a couple o' beers in me, and I'm laughin' my head off. Maybe they'll be funnier if you also have a couple o' somethings in you.
There is a human being on this planet, whose name shall go unmentioned, who once discovered a marijuana plant growing out of the floorboard of their car. It seems a stray cannabis seed landed in a fertile area of the rotting, rear floorboard carpeting where a broken window above provided moisture. This person either kept a very busy lifestyle or was so stoned they just didn't notice that the plant was doing quite well, thank you. A friend pointed it out to them when they looked in the backseat. It was high enough (pun intended) to be seen, hypothetically, from, say, the driver's seat of a patrol car.
I am on a health food kick. I drink Diet Coke Plus with Vitamins and Minerals (niacin, vitamin B-6 and B-12, magnesium, and zinc).
I'm gettin' butt cancer from all the smoke that's bein' blown up my ass by all the politicians runnin' for President, and later, I'll be footin' the bill for "treatments," too.
My wife wants to commission a scientific study on why, when you are microwaving a mug of coffee, the microwave spinning platter ALWAYS stops with the mug handle pointing at the back of the microwave.
How come some people get away with so much foolishness, and others are in deep doo for simple little nothing stuff? I think we ought to go ahead and decide who these people are that can get away with stuff and give them a license plate that reads, "R O M E". That stands for Royal Order of the Most Exempt. Let's get this injustice out in the open and acknowledge it for what it is. Let 'em get away with their stuff, and then the people who are not in the Royal Order of the Most Exempt won't feel so bad. For example, I don't care that I can't go the River Oaks Country Club. I'm not a member, fer cryin' out loud. And if that dude in Washington, D.C. got away with something worse than what I get in big trouble for, well, it's because I'm not a member of the Royal Order of the Most Exempt.
I have a new pet word for women's breasts: blouse biscuits. As in, "My, I sure would love to spread some butter on your blouse biscuits." It's not something I'll ever say to anyone but my wife, Peggy, but I will add, it works magic on her.
When you are on vacation, eating out at all the great restaurants is a real balancing act. You don't want to eat so much that you're so full you have to skip a meal.
The mirror is not our friend.
Money talks, and mine says, "Guhbye."
That's enough of this nonsense.
Monday, July 07, 2008
I was talking to one of the fifth grade teachers, who I will refer to as "Mrs. Smith." Mrs. Smith is a relatively new teacher, and this is her first year teaching fifth grade. Mrs. Smith is not a young girl, pink and fresh out of college, no sir! Mrs. Smith has been around for awhile, and in fact, she has three children of her own. But Mrs. Smith is "old school," and women just don't go around saying all kinds of cuss words and talking about genitalia, except during Happy Hour. I was talking to Mrs. Smith about the upcoming fifth grade puberty unit, and she said, "In order to prepare for the puberty unit, I have been standing in front of the bathroom mirror and practicing saying the word 'penis' without turning red, and I just about have it."
Amateur. Someone needs to take her to the Happy Hour where I have heard the women talking. Good heavens, they are worse than the men, although that does not count the longshoremen I heard blister an ear in Houston, Texas.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
One time I helped her move, and then easily talked her into tearing down a shed in her new backyard that was an ugly affair that hindered an otherwise wonderful view of a golf course on the other side of her fence. I also took offense to its low entry door that managed to clobber me on the head as I entered. ("Clobber me once, shame on you. Clobber me twice, shame on me. Clobber me three times, you're goin' down.") We made good use of Rebecca's cordless electric drill while demolishing the hideous shed, and we took numerous pictures of each other standing on the rubble holding the electric drill and slyly grinning like Schwarzennegger right after he laid siege on and machine gunned ninety-six drug dealers and meth manufacturers in their cement manufacturing plant/stronghold just outside the city of Megalopolis.
I refused to accept payment for helping her, so Rebecca gave me a present of an electric drill even bigger than hers. It's a DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. It's a yellow and black masterpiece of workmanship and power, making light of any home projects I have around the house. Trucks driving by my house slow down when I am out in the front yard using my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger. Envy is written all over the drivers' faces as I screw and unscrew and screw again the screws holding the pickets on my fence with the mighty power of my DeWalt DC759 Cordless Adjustable Clutch Driver/Drill with two (2) battery packs and a charger.
I was telling Rebecca recently that in my frightening nightmares, someone is trying to kill me. Rebecca casually replied, "I won't try to kill you........except in the heat of the moment."