I have nothing funny to say at the moment. I was going to do some Food Commandments and include the Evil Sauces and Vile Creamy Dressings flow chart, but I'm not feelin' it. So, as a mediocre substitute, here's a list of words, phrases and technical terms commonly used by my sons in their everyday speech. I'm not sure why I thought that would be enjoyable to read about, but that's the thin gruel I'm serving up this evening.
"Tokyos": Isaac's completely random name for Skittles candy. We can usually figure out the derivations of the boys' words, but Tara and I have no idea where this one came from. I'm just glad Isaac isn't old enough to be in school. Had he blurted this out during kindergarten snack time ("I'm having some wed and yellow Tokyos"), I'm sure he would have been suspended for culturally insensitive hate speech.
"Pork chop": Again, somewhat bizarrely, this is what Isaac called his chalk board. "Daddy, I want to draw you a spessal picture on my pork chop. I tried to draw a spessal picture on Riwee's face but he was mean and would not yet me and then Mommy gave me two spankings."
"Baddy Boody!": Precise meaning unknown. We believe its etymology can be traced back to Riley, who used to call the movie "Toy Story" -- featuring Buzz Lightyear and cowboy Woody -- Budd en Oody. Isaac latched on to this, morphed it into Baddy Boody and has made it one of his signature "Isaac's brain is now fully controlled by No-Nap Delirium" nonsense phrases that he likes to yell over and over as he sprints around the house. He also likes to blurt it out at the dinner table, in combination with the forbidden word 'Toopid (stupid) to see if he can get Riley to say it with him. This usually occurs after Riley has dumped his dinner on the floor and is rubbing the greasy plate in his hair, while Isaac is dipping his fork in his milk and drizzling it on the table like Jackson Pollack. After Isaac has been warned that one more artistic milk dripping will result in his iniquitous buttocks being smiteth, yea verily, he busts out the BB:
"Baddy Boody! Baddy Boody! 'Too-pid! Hahaha! Say it Wiwee! Baddyboodytoopid, Baddyboodytoopid, BADDYBOOOOOODYTOOPID! Noooo Daddy! No spankings. I ready to yissen ..."
Ayigator: Riley's name for "Gatorade." "More Ayigator, Daddy? More? Me holding Ayigator?" (Daddy foolishly allows Riley to "holding" the Ayigator and drink out of the plastic container; Riley over-tilts the bottle causing an Ayigator tidal wave, and Ayigator spills all over the couch. Then Mommy calls Daddy other names, which she spells out so the children won't hear.)
Guessing Room: What Isaac calls the Guest Room in our house. "Daddy, Daddy, can we go in the guessing room and pway games on the 'pooter? Riwee should not come with us in the guessing room because he will throw up yes actually he will Daddy because uh Daddy yissen Daddy Riwee threw up at breakfast and he cannot do dat in the nice guessing room."
Maybe tomorrow I'll provide my readership with a long, venomous rant about Mrs. Helen Keller Magoo, the lady in front of me in the Sheetz parking lot who pulled her car to the very right hand side of the massively wide exit area and then tried to turn LEFT. After I and the 10, now 11, now 15 other irate drivers waiting to turn Right sat behind this awful woman through three light cycles, we dragged her from her car and stoned her to death with rock hard Shmagels and Shmuffins. As I later explained to Isaac, you should never stone people unless they are Reewy, Reewy 'Toopid and Bwocking the Exit Yane.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Big Pharma Needs A Super Hero
This post is basically for my sister Jessie's amusement. All four of my other readers will find it bizarre. Feel free to return later this weekend, when I will discuss something of more general interest, like how I was the best kick ball player in the history of Muhlenberg Elementary School.
So, Jessie, one of my four beautiful and talented sisters, is a pharmaceutical rep. I've never quite understood -- or, rather, I've never been fully comfortable with the idea of trying to convince doctors to prescribe one medicine over another by bringing them trays of Panera cookies.
"Yes, Dr. Cocktoasten, while it's technically true that our competitor's breakthrough liquid rectal suppository cures both Leprosy and Diabetes while also fighting Gingivitis, and our FDA rejected drug, Anthraxostatin, does not seem to work at all in clinical human trials and caused 43 percent of test subjects over the age of 72 to develop fatal constipation, I've brought cheese filled croissants! And we'd like you to be the guest lecturer during our next product launch, in Monte Carlo, where you'll have daily access to the electric blue Pfizzer Pferarri and will receive unlimited full body massages from Monica Bellucci. You'll write 17,000 scrips next month? Super! Here's some extra pens for your staff and there's a miniature white Lippizaner stallion for your daughter tethered in the parking lot. Thanks so much doctor!"
But I digress. The reason I mentioned my sister's job is because she told me what occurred at her most recent sales meeting (or "Stretch Goal Quest" or whatever ridiculous internal name the company gives such pow wows) and I found it amusing. The point of this meeting -- as it is for all such meetings -- was for the genius level management personnel to tell all the agents that they sucketh greatly and that due to their slothfulness and lack of enthusiasm, market share is in the toilet. The solution to this crisis? Be the Plunger. No, no, my sister was advised by her wise and inspirational team leader that she must ... wait for it ... Think Outside The Box. Brilliant! (Someone in the corporate world should incorporate that novel concept -- maybe with a cute graphic of a brain with legs squatting next to cube -- into a PowerPoint presentation.)
My sister asked the sales Oracle for a bit more specificity, to help her achieve this state of External Boxedness that would increase sales. His response was so deeply asinine that I have no doubt he will be company CEO in less than six months. He said, in his most scornful Gordon Gekko voice: "Do you watch movies? Do you? Well then, ask yourself -- what would Batman do?"
(This exchange immediately brought back long-repressed, horrific memories of my stint as in-house counsel at a large company. My boss, an incomparably hateful woman who we (me) called Satan's Corpulent Handmaiden or the Shambling Mound of Toadyism, when confronted with a question she could not answer -- a frequent occurrence -- would say: "Interesting question. You should read the book 'Who Moved My Cheese?'" Apparently, this book was equivalent to the King James Bible in terms of the eternal, universal truths that it imparted. I never did read the Traveling Cheese book and I smashed my Diversity Cube with a ball peen hammer and I refused to donate to the United Way and was placed on a Watch List by HR. Surprisingly, I did not become a member of the Board of Directors.)
But back to my sister's mentor, Socrates, and his profound inquiry: What would Bat Man do to make doctors write more prescriptions? I want my sister to answer this question correctly on her next "How to Sell Drugs" pop quiz. Well, upon reflection, the answer is obvious. Batman -- at least, Christian Bale's Batman, would employ the following Superhero Sales Stratagems. First, he would signal all the doctors in his territory with a giant spot light showing a Reuben sandwich shaped like a bat, so that they would know it was time for a catered lunch. Next, he would send Catwoman (Michelle Pfeiffer or Halle Berry, take your pick) to sit in the doctors' laps while doing "hypotheticals" and explaining the boring formulary. Finally, Batman would telepathically command the doctors he called on to inject the clueless, jargon spewing corporate drone-bot regional sales managers with a lethal dose of potassium chloride during one of their "ride alongs." This would dramatically boost sales and company morale. Oh, wait -- I think it was Aquaman that had telepathic powers.
Nevermind.
Jessie, I hope this helps you impress the power brokers at your company. At your next sales meeting, when the VP of Rampant Success Visualization asks the group: "If you were a drug tree, what kind of drug tree would you be?" -- I'm afraid you're on your own.
So, Jessie, one of my four beautiful and talented sisters, is a pharmaceutical rep. I've never quite understood -- or, rather, I've never been fully comfortable with the idea of trying to convince doctors to prescribe one medicine over another by bringing them trays of Panera cookies.
"Yes, Dr. Cocktoasten, while it's technically true that our competitor's breakthrough liquid rectal suppository cures both Leprosy and Diabetes while also fighting Gingivitis, and our FDA rejected drug, Anthraxostatin, does not seem to work at all in clinical human trials and caused 43 percent of test subjects over the age of 72 to develop fatal constipation, I've brought cheese filled croissants! And we'd like you to be the guest lecturer during our next product launch, in Monte Carlo, where you'll have daily access to the electric blue Pfizzer Pferarri and will receive unlimited full body massages from Monica Bellucci. You'll write 17,000 scrips next month? Super! Here's some extra pens for your staff and there's a miniature white Lippizaner stallion for your daughter tethered in the parking lot. Thanks so much doctor!"
But I digress. The reason I mentioned my sister's job is because she told me what occurred at her most recent sales meeting (or "Stretch Goal Quest" or whatever ridiculous internal name the company gives such pow wows) and I found it amusing. The point of this meeting -- as it is for all such meetings -- was for the genius level management personnel to tell all the agents that they sucketh greatly and that due to their slothfulness and lack of enthusiasm, market share is in the toilet. The solution to this crisis? Be the Plunger. No, no, my sister was advised by her wise and inspirational team leader that she must ... wait for it ... Think Outside The Box. Brilliant! (Someone in the corporate world should incorporate that novel concept -- maybe with a cute graphic of a brain with legs squatting next to cube -- into a PowerPoint presentation.)
My sister asked the sales Oracle for a bit more specificity, to help her achieve this state of External Boxedness that would increase sales. His response was so deeply asinine that I have no doubt he will be company CEO in less than six months. He said, in his most scornful Gordon Gekko voice: "Do you watch movies? Do you? Well then, ask yourself -- what would Batman do?"
(This exchange immediately brought back long-repressed, horrific memories of my stint as in-house counsel at a large company. My boss, an incomparably hateful woman who we (me) called Satan's Corpulent Handmaiden or the Shambling Mound of Toadyism, when confronted with a question she could not answer -- a frequent occurrence -- would say: "Interesting question. You should read the book 'Who Moved My Cheese?'" Apparently, this book was equivalent to the King James Bible in terms of the eternal, universal truths that it imparted. I never did read the Traveling Cheese book and I smashed my Diversity Cube with a ball peen hammer and I refused to donate to the United Way and was placed on a Watch List by HR. Surprisingly, I did not become a member of the Board of Directors.)
But back to my sister's mentor, Socrates, and his profound inquiry: What would Bat Man do to make doctors write more prescriptions? I want my sister to answer this question correctly on her next "How to Sell Drugs" pop quiz. Well, upon reflection, the answer is obvious. Batman -- at least, Christian Bale's Batman, would employ the following Superhero Sales Stratagems. First, he would signal all the doctors in his territory with a giant spot light showing a Reuben sandwich shaped like a bat, so that they would know it was time for a catered lunch. Next, he would send Catwoman (Michelle Pfeiffer or Halle Berry, take your pick) to sit in the doctors' laps while doing "hypotheticals" and explaining the boring formulary. Finally, Batman would telepathically command the doctors he called on to inject the clueless, jargon spewing corporate drone-bot regional sales managers with a lethal dose of potassium chloride during one of their "ride alongs." This would dramatically boost sales and company morale. Oh, wait -- I think it was Aquaman that had telepathic powers.
Nevermind.
Jessie, I hope this helps you impress the power brokers at your company. At your next sales meeting, when the VP of Rampant Success Visualization asks the group: "If you were a drug tree, what kind of drug tree would you be?" -- I'm afraid you're on your own.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Mommy, Why Daddy Is Yelling and Saying 'Son of Uh!'? What is Son of Uh? Dat Funny!
Daddy was saying "Son of a ...!" because Daddy thought it best not to complete that thought. What prompted Daddy's outburst was, of course, a dreaded Home Improvement Project.
Oh, before I continue I see that I have my very first Follower. Thanks Nicole, for boosting my flagging self-esteem. Go ye now and do my bidding; here is my first command to you: "It's time for Helter Skelter." (Charles Manson jokes -- always tastefully hilarious.)
As I was saying, I am a poor man's Bob Vila. That is, if Bob Vila had no arms and legs (and became enraged every three seconds because he could not use his mouth to hold the nails and hammer them at the same time even with the special velcro mouthpiece attachment), and knew as much about carpentry as Rosie O'Donell knows about geopolitics -- I would be Bob Vila. My saving grace is that even though I am not particularly handy, I accept my limitations in this area with equanimity and good humor and only become insanely angry when major catastrophes occur -- like when stupid adhesive vinyl tiles will not fit together neatly.
Laying vinyl tiles. That's what I was doing today. Let me see if I can rank that on the home improvement difficulty meter, with 10 being, say, a project that only a team of architects, engineers and that master wood worker guy that's on after "This Old House" should attempt, and 1 being a project that a special needs monkey could complete while simultaneously eating a banana. On that scale, vinyl tile installation rates a ZERO. Not tremendously challenging for sentient beings with opposable thumbs. But somehow, in the midst of this laughably simple project, on several occasions I wanted to gouge my eyes out with the utility knife. (But I did not kick anything, and I only spiked my metal T-square twice. And I threw my tantrums only when the boys were busy in the living room making it look like a Claymore mine filled with toy cars and trucks exploded, so good parenting award to me!)
We were fixing up our "sun room." Sun room is a bit of a misnomer, since the room has no heat. This time of year it's more like an 18' x 10' walk-in freezer, with four large, crudded up picture windows. I believe the previous owners used this room to hang slabs of meat on large hooks and to store tractor parts. We keep our treadmill in this room, which was last treaded upon when poor Dubya was popular. When we bought the house, the owners had covered the original plywood floor with that green, indoor-outdoor carpet that looks and feels just like Astroturf. Classy! -- and in keeping with the authentic Colonial Williamsburg vibe. We covered that abomination over with a bunch of high end carpet remnants that were slightly too wide for the room; I decided that rather than spend a lot of time cutting and fitting (and screaming), I'd just let the carpet ride a few inches up the side of each wall, where it would blend in.
(I have visions of Ty Pennington inspecting our sun room, moments before demolition, shaking his head with a mixture of pity and disgust.
"So, you used this room to work out? I mean, this is bad. Look at this carpet! It looks like a blind man with a spastic arm went a little nuts with the staple gun. You've got staples out the wazoo. I see there was water leaking from the ceiling. You put the Lego bucket under it. Nice. Did you keep livestock in here? Oh, your two Labs. Man, the whole room kind of smells like wet dog. And the doctors think that's how you contracted Lab Lung? They said it was the airborne microbes from their feces breath? Wow. That's ... that's just a bummer. Well, Lucido family, the good news is that we're going to demolish this unsafe, uninhabitable sun room and you're going to take a vacation -- to the Camden Aquarium!")
Actually, thanks to my wife's mad painting skillz -- and some very nice, post-tantrum lining up of the tiles by moi -- the room came out pretty good. Of course, tomorrow I have to cut the tiles to fit around the room edges. That project could be ... slightly perturbing. I'm going to try my best to avoid having a Jack Nicholson in the "Shining" moment. Did I mention that Tara loves it when I have home improvement rage? She says those are the moments when she's most attracted to me. Well, that and when I swerve around people moving too slowly in the left lane and then give them the much derserved "You're a human cankersore" stare. She really likes that.
Enough lyrical prose for now. Maybe on Tuesday we'll discuss the myriad evils of creamy sauces.
No, wait. Can't do it then. I'll be watching MSNBC all day while at work and weeping along with the Revrund Jackson, Oprah, Sean Penn, Tim Robbins et al. Just for a different reason.
Oh, before I continue I see that I have my very first Follower. Thanks Nicole, for boosting my flagging self-esteem. Go ye now and do my bidding; here is my first command to you: "It's time for Helter Skelter." (Charles Manson jokes -- always tastefully hilarious.)
As I was saying, I am a poor man's Bob Vila. That is, if Bob Vila had no arms and legs (and became enraged every three seconds because he could not use his mouth to hold the nails and hammer them at the same time even with the special velcro mouthpiece attachment), and knew as much about carpentry as Rosie O'Donell knows about geopolitics -- I would be Bob Vila. My saving grace is that even though I am not particularly handy, I accept my limitations in this area with equanimity and good humor and only become insanely angry when major catastrophes occur -- like when stupid adhesive vinyl tiles will not fit together neatly.
Laying vinyl tiles. That's what I was doing today. Let me see if I can rank that on the home improvement difficulty meter, with 10 being, say, a project that only a team of architects, engineers and that master wood worker guy that's on after "This Old House" should attempt, and 1 being a project that a special needs monkey could complete while simultaneously eating a banana. On that scale, vinyl tile installation rates a ZERO. Not tremendously challenging for sentient beings with opposable thumbs. But somehow, in the midst of this laughably simple project, on several occasions I wanted to gouge my eyes out with the utility knife. (But I did not kick anything, and I only spiked my metal T-square twice. And I threw my tantrums only when the boys were busy in the living room making it look like a Claymore mine filled with toy cars and trucks exploded, so good parenting award to me!)
We were fixing up our "sun room." Sun room is a bit of a misnomer, since the room has no heat. This time of year it's more like an 18' x 10' walk-in freezer, with four large, crudded up picture windows. I believe the previous owners used this room to hang slabs of meat on large hooks and to store tractor parts. We keep our treadmill in this room, which was last treaded upon when poor Dubya was popular. When we bought the house, the owners had covered the original plywood floor with that green, indoor-outdoor carpet that looks and feels just like Astroturf. Classy! -- and in keeping with the authentic Colonial Williamsburg vibe. We covered that abomination over with a bunch of high end carpet remnants that were slightly too wide for the room; I decided that rather than spend a lot of time cutting and fitting (and screaming), I'd just let the carpet ride a few inches up the side of each wall, where it would blend in.
(I have visions of Ty Pennington inspecting our sun room, moments before demolition, shaking his head with a mixture of pity and disgust.
"So, you used this room to work out? I mean, this is bad. Look at this carpet! It looks like a blind man with a spastic arm went a little nuts with the staple gun. You've got staples out the wazoo. I see there was water leaking from the ceiling. You put the Lego bucket under it. Nice. Did you keep livestock in here? Oh, your two Labs. Man, the whole room kind of smells like wet dog. And the doctors think that's how you contracted Lab Lung? They said it was the airborne microbes from their feces breath? Wow. That's ... that's just a bummer. Well, Lucido family, the good news is that we're going to demolish this unsafe, uninhabitable sun room and you're going to take a vacation -- to the Camden Aquarium!")
Actually, thanks to my wife's mad painting skillz -- and some very nice, post-tantrum lining up of the tiles by moi -- the room came out pretty good. Of course, tomorrow I have to cut the tiles to fit around the room edges. That project could be ... slightly perturbing. I'm going to try my best to avoid having a Jack Nicholson in the "Shining" moment. Did I mention that Tara loves it when I have home improvement rage? She says those are the moments when she's most attracted to me. Well, that and when I swerve around people moving too slowly in the left lane and then give them the much derserved "You're a human cankersore" stare. She really likes that.
Enough lyrical prose for now. Maybe on Tuesday we'll discuss the myriad evils of creamy sauces.
No, wait. Can't do it then. I'll be watching MSNBC all day while at work and weeping along with the Revrund Jackson, Oprah, Sean Penn, Tim Robbins et al. Just for a different reason.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Must we disclose that the prior owners died from radon poisoning?
If all goes according to plan, we are hoping to list our house for sale in the next two or three months and then join the nearest Branch Davidian commune.
This is the perfect time to sell, because: home sales are booming! Also, it's the middle of winter, everything looks drab and desolate, and the unscoopable, rock hard piles of frozen dog poop (courtesy of our two fecund Labs) that have melded with our back lawn will charm any prospective buyer.
Did I mention that we have two boys, ages 3 (Isaac) and 2 (Riley) who like to sprint around our dining room table while wearing, respectively, dirty socks on his hands like mittens (Isaac) and a green plastic bucket on his head (Riley) -- while screaming "I Smash You!" "No, I Shmash Youuuuu!" at each other? They will be a huge help during the arduous boxing and packing phase.
We're expecting a baby girl in March -- not making that up -- and nothing eases the crushing stresses of the moving process like a newborn with, say, reflux and hives from dog allergies. Ok, enough negativity. Even I must concede that it will be easy to keep our home looking neat and clean at all times, what with the Captains of Chaos roaming free, strategically placing mounds of trucks, blocks, discarded sippy cups and shards of half eaten pieces of toast in every room.
Universal Selling Point in Our Favor: the thick clumps of black dog hair that roll like tumbleweeds across our hard wood floors and into our morning breakfast cereal. Realtors traditionally view this as a potential "turn off" -- but rampant dog hair that seems to magically regrow itself 15 minutes after vacuuming is now considered "chic and desirable" according to PETA.
Fortunately, we live in a stately brick farm house, built in 1860, that requires very little up keep. Thus, the only items on our "before you sell" list are minor, cosmetic fixes, like:
1) Locate source of pesky gas leak and duct tape it;
2) Throw area rug over basement sink hole;
3) Have boys color in with burgundy magic marker large areas on dining room wall where they ripped off pieces of ornate wall paper that is a discontinued pattern and cannot be replaced;
4) Place large chair in front of annoying electrical outlet in living room that constantly sparks and melts all the extension cords;
5) In-ground, 1,000 gallon oil tank may have slow leak. Tap water still looks and tastes fine. Ignore.
6) Fill in gaping craters idiot dogs dug in back yard with sand from Isaac's sand box. If Isaac sees this and cries, pacify him with bag of colored marshmallows. Or give him Skittles and let him play with Mommy's good jewelry. Make him promise not to drop it down "the hole" in the dining room floor.
7) Wood at base of garage doors is rotting. Looks bad. Try to conceal with Tara's decorative rocks from garden.
8) Refinished pine floors in dining room have deep, ugly scratches from spastic dogs' raptor claws. Get gallon of Polyurethane. Pour in dogs' water bowls. Kill dogs.
9) Water still pooling on roof of front porch. Plan all open houses on days when not raining.
10) Look into "cloud on title" issue.
This is the perfect time to sell, because: home sales are booming! Also, it's the middle of winter, everything looks drab and desolate, and the unscoopable, rock hard piles of frozen dog poop (courtesy of our two fecund Labs) that have melded with our back lawn will charm any prospective buyer.
Did I mention that we have two boys, ages 3 (Isaac) and 2 (Riley) who like to sprint around our dining room table while wearing, respectively, dirty socks on his hands like mittens (Isaac) and a green plastic bucket on his head (Riley) -- while screaming "I Smash You!" "No, I Shmash Youuuuu!" at each other? They will be a huge help during the arduous boxing and packing phase.
We're expecting a baby girl in March -- not making that up -- and nothing eases the crushing stresses of the moving process like a newborn with, say, reflux and hives from dog allergies. Ok, enough negativity. Even I must concede that it will be easy to keep our home looking neat and clean at all times, what with the Captains of Chaos roaming free, strategically placing mounds of trucks, blocks, discarded sippy cups and shards of half eaten pieces of toast in every room.
Universal Selling Point in Our Favor: the thick clumps of black dog hair that roll like tumbleweeds across our hard wood floors and into our morning breakfast cereal. Realtors traditionally view this as a potential "turn off" -- but rampant dog hair that seems to magically regrow itself 15 minutes after vacuuming is now considered "chic and desirable" according to PETA.
Fortunately, we live in a stately brick farm house, built in 1860, that requires very little up keep. Thus, the only items on our "before you sell" list are minor, cosmetic fixes, like:
1) Locate source of pesky gas leak and duct tape it;
2) Throw area rug over basement sink hole;
3) Have boys color in with burgundy magic marker large areas on dining room wall where they ripped off pieces of ornate wall paper that is a discontinued pattern and cannot be replaced;
4) Place large chair in front of annoying electrical outlet in living room that constantly sparks and melts all the extension cords;
5) In-ground, 1,000 gallon oil tank may have slow leak. Tap water still looks and tastes fine. Ignore.
6) Fill in gaping craters idiot dogs dug in back yard with sand from Isaac's sand box. If Isaac sees this and cries, pacify him with bag of colored marshmallows. Or give him Skittles and let him play with Mommy's good jewelry. Make him promise not to drop it down "the hole" in the dining room floor.
7) Wood at base of garage doors is rotting. Looks bad. Try to conceal with Tara's decorative rocks from garden.
8) Refinished pine floors in dining room have deep, ugly scratches from spastic dogs' raptor claws. Get gallon of Polyurethane. Pour in dogs' water bowls. Kill dogs.
9) Water still pooling on roof of front porch. Plan all open houses on days when not raining.
10) Look into "cloud on title" issue.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Unfrozen Caveman Blogger Say: Now Me Pretty Big Deal
"And thus began one of the great literary works of our time."
Tony's Mom, on the haunting first line -- 'Last night I dreamt of setting Manderley, my sister's stupid guinea pig, on fire again' -- of his award winning 5th grade Anti-Fire Prevention Essay.
If my Mom could actually log onto her computer from the Pleistocene Era, she'd no doubt say the same about this, my inaugural blog post.
Childhood fame changes people. After that essay, followed by my critically acclaimed series of hilarious family Christmas newsletters and my PUBLISHED Letter to the Editor of Sports Illustrated (in which I, channeling Mencken, called Rick Reilly a "bigger buffoon than Dennis Rodman." Classic stuff.) -- I was burnt out. Disillusioned with the industry. So, I stopped writing for money and lived off the residuals. Then I went insane and decided to go to law school.
But my dedicated readers, who have so enjoyed my Pulitzer-worthy email rants about timely and important issues of the day -- Pinhead Drivers; The Heinous Evil that is Mayonnaise; My Attempts To Have My Feces Eating Dogs Euthanized Without My Wife's Knowledge; Why One Should Never Eat A Mystery Crumb Even if One is Nearly Certain it Fell Off a Delectable Entenmann's Danish -- have demanded that I keep churning out the drivel.
So, this is for the American People. (Note: Because I have advanced, bi-lateral Procrastination Syndrome -- thank you for your letters -- with secondary Slothfulness, I may not be able to post as consistently as some other professional bloggers. I think if the nine people who ultimately read this check back every Memorial Day, they'll likely be rewarded with fresh content.)
That's all for now. In a few years, I hope to have my bio up, and maybe some pictures. If my three year old son Isaac could read, he'd say: "Daddee, this bwog is not very good. The moon is up and you need to go to sweep."
Indeed.
Tony's Mom, on the haunting first line -- 'Last night I dreamt of setting Manderley, my sister's stupid guinea pig, on fire again' -- of his award winning 5th grade Anti-Fire Prevention Essay.
If my Mom could actually log onto her computer from the Pleistocene Era, she'd no doubt say the same about this, my inaugural blog post.
Childhood fame changes people. After that essay, followed by my critically acclaimed series of hilarious family Christmas newsletters and my PUBLISHED Letter to the Editor of Sports Illustrated (in which I, channeling Mencken, called Rick Reilly a "bigger buffoon than Dennis Rodman." Classic stuff.) -- I was burnt out. Disillusioned with the industry. So, I stopped writing for money and lived off the residuals. Then I went insane and decided to go to law school.
But my dedicated readers, who have so enjoyed my Pulitzer-worthy email rants about timely and important issues of the day -- Pinhead Drivers; The Heinous Evil that is Mayonnaise; My Attempts To Have My Feces Eating Dogs Euthanized Without My Wife's Knowledge; Why One Should Never Eat A Mystery Crumb Even if One is Nearly Certain it Fell Off a Delectable Entenmann's Danish -- have demanded that I keep churning out the drivel.
So, this is for the American People. (Note: Because I have advanced, bi-lateral Procrastination Syndrome -- thank you for your letters -- with secondary Slothfulness, I may not be able to post as consistently as some other professional bloggers. I think if the nine people who ultimately read this check back every Memorial Day, they'll likely be rewarded with fresh content.)
That's all for now. In a few years, I hope to have my bio up, and maybe some pictures. If my three year old son Isaac could read, he'd say: "Daddee, this bwog is not very good. The moon is up and you need to go to sweep."
Indeed.
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