Yes, it is October. Christmas rapidly approaches. Our boys have already informed us that they want, among other things, a trampoline (very bad idea) a Bugatti, a Langorbeenie and a machine that will take them to the 2nd Dimension like Phineas and Ferb. (Don't ask.)
So, to help everyone make preparations for the Holiday, below I have set forth my professional tips on how to pick, and erect, the perfect Christmas tree. These guidelines come from personal experience, and all of them are based on true, emotionally scarring events. Yes, even the chain saw in the living room.
It has been a Lucido family tradition, possibly dating back to Jamestown, to pile in the family truckster with the kiddies (all hopped up on sugary treats, such as the delightful Hand Imprint Turkey Cookies with glopped-on hills and ridges of green, red and purple icing, all whooping, screeching and twitching like euphoric Meth addicts with uncontrollable pre-Christmas mania) the Saturday after Thanksgiving to go select a real, live Tannenbaum. Artificial, sapless trees are for infirm people in nursing homes. Or Grinchy wusses who over-value their sanity. (If you don't get an intense feeling of satisfaction when repeatedly clogging your 50 horsepower Shop Vac sucking up metric tons of dead pine needles off the carpet every two hours so your foraging, one and a half year old daughter won't eat them, you don't know the true meaning of Christmas, and I pity you.)
In years past, I have demonstrated a Clark Griswold-like inability to accurately gauge the size of our tree: standing in the great outdoors, picking out our "just right" Douglas Fir, I've underestimated the tree's actual living room "presence," despite diplomatic hints from tree farm employees who eyed our chosen tree and said things like: "Uh, you folks gonna put this up in a barn?" or "Mister, d'ya have a trailer? I think this might crush your roof." Inevitably, this poor understanding of spatial relationships produces generous amounts of Holiday Tree Rage, when Daddy is forced to use a hack saw, branch loppers, high-tensile, wall mounted bridge support cables and risk a simultaneous double hernia and brain embolism shoving Gigantor Pine thru the front door and winching it upright.
Of course, Daddy Never Learns, and, indeed, Grows Ever Dumber. Thus, you guessed it: this year's King Kong Tree caused so much stroke-inducing wrath and multiple, tool-flinging tantrums before the accursed thing was semi-vertical and decorated, that I had to share some helpful tips on how Christmas tree professionals -- like me -- Just Do It, and in the process make it look so easy. Note: Not all of these steps are mandatory, although most are recommended. Pick those that work best for you and your family.
1. Drive to tree farm that used to be close to your old house, but is now a good 45 minutes away -- because it's tradition and emitting CO2 annoys people who drive Priuses -- and pick out a tree. Note: if tree is higher than the tippy top line on the 10' board used for pricing, consider downsizing. (Important Bonus Tip: if your bone weary 5 year old son falls asleep en route to the tree farm, dare not wake him from his Nap of the Dead upon arrival and make him get into his hated winter coat and scratchy hat, for yea verily, you will unleash such a torrent of misery and unspeakable crabbiness that the foundations of the earth shall tremble and the heavens will cry out: Fools! Why didst thou wake the slumbering child and not bring pacifying candy or powerful sedatives?)
2. Arrive safely home with tree. If tree has not flown off on the interstate and impaled a trailing State Police trooper in the head a la "Final Destination 2," it was tied down properly. If the tree does achieve launch status during return trip (holding it firmly to the roof with your left arm like the gene pool depleters who transport unsecured mattresses on top of their mini-vans is not advisable), race to the next exit, turn off your lights, park in a neighbor's drive way for at least a half an hour until the police cruisers stop circling the development, and buy a less dangerous and more easily transported potted Kwanzaa shrub.
3. Remove tree from roof of SUV. Do this when it's already dark outside to lessen visibility, and without gloves, because chicks dig men with pine needle scars (okay, scratches) on their hands. Although the tree is the approximate size and weight of a canoe filled with bricks, do not ask for wife's assistance, as this betrays weakness. If you drop the tree because your foot slips off the running board, and the trunk leaves an ugly scratch on the side of your vehicle on the way down, muffle curses by screaming into your wife's squishy travel pillow.
4. Check to see if trunk of tree will fit into plastic sleeve for tree stand. Ha! Of course it doesn't fit, you idiot! It's the circumference of a smallish Red Wood. Get hammer and chisel -- seriously -- and begin methodically chipping off layers of bark while seated on butt numbingly cold garage floor. This should take only an hour. If your legs lose all feeling, smash the chisel into your knee cap. This will take your mind off the pain in your pulped thumb, which you mangled during an ill- advised, "I'll-make-this-$%&*@-wood-knot-that-is-sticking-out-wish-it-was-never-born!" Babe Ruth hammer swing.
5. With bottom of tree trunk shaved to half its original circumference, screw on plastic sleeve that will now insert neatly and securely into the "socket" portion of the very expensive tree stand you bought from Hammacher Schlemmer, which is guaranteed to hold the mightiest, steroidally enhanced Christmas tree in all of the North Pole.
6. Grunting with exertion, haul tree, battering ram style, thru front door and into living room. Blindly -- and unsuccessfully -- try to insert it into tree stand. When wife, watching your titanic struggle with nature, asks bemusedly if she can help, yell "No! I can do it myself!" just before tripping over toy truck, losing balance and staggering like a drunken lumberjack into T.V. armoire. Scream cathartically: "I hate this stupid tree! I wish Christmas never came!" as your children, seated in their pj's on the living room ottoman watching "Elmo Goes to Grouchland for the Seven Thousandth Time and If Daddy Hears Elmo's Blankie Song Again He'll Eat a Bullet," stare goggle eyed at Daddy the sweaty berserker and ask Mommy: "Why is Daddy mad and saying that bad word 'stupid?'"
7. With tree precariously inserted into the base, spend the next half hour trying to make it stand up straight. Do this by stepping on the pedal that allows the tree stand to swivel, while threatening to throw the tree out the window if it won't stop tilting to the left or right in blatant defiance of your wishes. When it becomes obvious that the tree is too tall and too heavy for even a sturdy, German-engineered "Best in Test" tree stand (this might have been obvious even before now to a keen observer), and that the heavy plastic base also used in the manufacture of Panzer tanks is making foreboding creaking noises, as if the entire contraption is about to grenade, give up and stomp off to bed. Comfort yourself that you have accomplished most of your impossible mission. So what if the tree is not perfectly straight. You can tell guests it's a leaning, post-modern tree, that does not bow to patriarchal conventions of straightness. At least there's no risk it will fall down.
8. Awaken at 3 am to the sound of the tree falling down and crashing like a sack of dead elephants into the living room couch. Walk out to living room and stare in silent, stupefied fury at fallen tree for a full five minutes, maybe ten, gazing at the blast radius of branches, pine needles and no doubt thousands of tiny sap projectiles now flecking the living room walls. Fantasize about feeding the evil tree into an industrial wood chipper, until the wife breaks your demented reverie and demands that you come back to bed.
9. Get up at seven a.m. Note bitterly that Santa has not magically fixed the tree while you slept. Its fallen carcass still lies dead on the living room floor, mocking you.
10. Time for drastic, anger-fueled measures. Still wearing boxers and undershirt, get wife's loppers from the garage. Gleefully hack off branches, until the bottom three feet of trunk is denuded.
11. Bust out the chain saw. After spending twenty minutes fixing the chain -- Gollum hates the dratted, always-coming-off chainsaw chain! We hates it! -- savagely pull start the Poulan tree amputator. Revel in the window rattling cacophony. Don't bother dragging the tree back out to the garage; too much work. No, have the wife take the kids into the master bed room, and go Christmas Chain Saw Massacre on that overgrown pine. The tree has now been shortened by three feet, and the living room reeks of gas. Breathe deeply of the manly, oil/fuel mixture, a festive smell which will linger in your home, despite the use of numerous Glade air freshener bombs, until late January. Even the Who's down in Whoville loved the smell of gas in the living room on a Holiday morning.
12. Patiently explain to your crying children, who are hacking and coughing from the acrid chain saw smoke and the scary noise, that Daddy is not mad, but that there was a Christmas Emergency so Daddy had to use the loud machine. Also, instruct the children that might makes right, and then give them as many cookies for breakfast as they can double fist into their pie holes.
13. Spend 50 minutes on hands and knees vacuuming up wood chips from every nook and cranny in the living room while your wife stands over you like a drill sergeant, slapping a wooden spoon into her palm. Note this as a possible down side to using a chain saw in the living room.
14. Re-insert humbled, smaller tree (now a dwarfish 9 feet) into tree stand while doing a victory dance and yelling "How ya like me now? Mr. Tree Amputee?! Yeah -- Sucka! Um, Isaac and Riley, Daddy is saying grown up things. Ask Mommy later what 'sucka' means. No, the boy in Sunday school who took your truck is not a Sucka. We can only use that word at Christmas, when the bad tree won't stand up straight and falls over. Just do your dinosaur puzzle."
15. Search for various tools that you threw across the living room last evening in justifiable anger -- where's the hack saw? -- and put them away. Explain to your children that throwing sharp tools is only ok when you're really, really upset and need to vent your frustration.
16. Put on the soothing Nat King Cole Christmas album, and munch contentedly on a man-sized mixing bowl of Honeycomb cereal, knowing that in this year's contest of Man vs. Christmas Tree, Tree won. But Man got his petty revenge, and it was sweet.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Day Our Son Changed his Middle Name
Recently, wacky LA Laker Ron Artest has made the news for changing his name to "Metta World Peace." (His second choice was "Metta Involuntary Commitment Proceeding Is Needed By Ron Ron.") Anyway, that got me reflecting on the day -- about a year ago -- that our 3 year old, Riley, announced that he was dissatisfied with his middle name, and was legally changing it.
Here's a brief recap, as I recorded it for the family archives:
Riley is our free spirit. He kind of wanders happily thru life, occasionally stopping to head-butt something, or ask, quite loudly, in the middle of the grocery store why Daddy's poops are so big. He likes to relax on the living room couch wearing his Elmo tighty whitey underpants and snow boots. He's a funny boy.
Last weekend, we were at my sister's home. She also has a three year old boy, Laird. At some point during the day, Laird was not behaving (I don't remember the precise infraction; it may have involved the exposing of the firm, Lairdly buttocks at an unwelcome time during his sister's birthday party). My sister, as all parents do when expressing extreme displeasure, invoked Laird's middle name: "Laird John!" Riley, not familiar with the whole middle name concept, was confused by this. The following conversation ensued:
(Riley, wearing his quizzical face) "Daddy, what is Laird John?"
"Well, John is Laird's middle name."
"Mibblename? What is mibblename?"
"No, Riley, miDDle name. Laird is his first name, and his middle name is John."
"Why?"
"Because that's what Uncle Peter and Aunt Nicole named him."
(Riley, stonefaced, ponders this for a while.)
"What is named my middle name?"
"Your middle name is Edward. Riley Edward Lucido."
(Riley, expressionless, considers this information with the seriousness of a patient who has just been informed he has an inoperable brain tumor. After about a minute passes, he narrows his eyes and furrows his brow with extreme displeasure.)
"No."
"No, what?"
"My middle name is not named Edward."
"Riley, yes it is. That's what Mommy and Daddy named you, after your Grandpa."
"No. My middle name is ... Budward. Riley Budward."
He nodded his head in satisfaction, as if this proclamation had set the universe right again. And then he turned and walked away. Conversation over.
So now we have a son named Budward. Lame-O Edward is out, chick magnet, Budward is in. Lord knows where he came up with it -- it sounds like the nickname for the guy at the frat house who did the most keg stands -- but as far as Riley is concerned, he is Riley Budward Lucido, of Pennsylvania Harrisburg, and anyone who says different will be swiftly informed of their error.
Here's a brief recap, as I recorded it for the family archives:
Riley is our free spirit. He kind of wanders happily thru life, occasionally stopping to head-butt something, or ask, quite loudly, in the middle of the grocery store why Daddy's poops are so big. He likes to relax on the living room couch wearing his Elmo tighty whitey underpants and snow boots. He's a funny boy.
Last weekend, we were at my sister's home. She also has a three year old boy, Laird. At some point during the day, Laird was not behaving (I don't remember the precise infraction; it may have involved the exposing of the firm, Lairdly buttocks at an unwelcome time during his sister's birthday party). My sister, as all parents do when expressing extreme displeasure, invoked Laird's middle name: "Laird John!" Riley, not familiar with the whole middle name concept, was confused by this. The following conversation ensued:
(Riley, wearing his quizzical face) "Daddy, what is Laird John?"
"Well, John is Laird's middle name."
"Mibblename? What is mibblename?"
"No, Riley, miDDle name. Laird is his first name, and his middle name is John."
"Why?"
"Because that's what Uncle Peter and Aunt Nicole named him."
(Riley, stonefaced, ponders this for a while.)
"What is named my middle name?"
"Your middle name is Edward. Riley Edward Lucido."
(Riley, expressionless, considers this information with the seriousness of a patient who has just been informed he has an inoperable brain tumor. After about a minute passes, he narrows his eyes and furrows his brow with extreme displeasure.)
"No."
"No, what?"
"My middle name is not named Edward."
"Riley, yes it is. That's what Mommy and Daddy named you, after your Grandpa."
"No. My middle name is ... Budward. Riley Budward."
He nodded his head in satisfaction, as if this proclamation had set the universe right again. And then he turned and walked away. Conversation over.
So now we have a son named Budward. Lame-O Edward is out, chick magnet, Budward is in. Lord knows where he came up with it -- it sounds like the nickname for the guy at the frat house who did the most keg stands -- but as far as Riley is concerned, he is Riley Budward Lucido, of Pennsylvania Harrisburg, and anyone who says different will be swiftly informed of their error.
Political Correctness Is Fun
I spent several years working at a huge company that was so saturated with cult-like, PC idiocy, people (read: me) got into major trouble for heinous transgressions like, for example, not proudly displaying one's "Diversity Cube" (literally, a Rubix-cube with photos of smiling black, Hispanic, Asian, transgendered, Native American, non-WASP imperialist people on each cube) on our desks at all times.*
*It should go without saying -- no, it never does -- that although I detest identity politics, I'm super-fine with Asians, African Americans, Hispanics, Romulans, etc. However, I reflexively resisted being forced to keep a ridiculous cube -- attesting to my diversity bona fides -- on my desk. "Look, visitor to my office. See that odd cube, next to my in-box? What does it do, you ask? Why, it proves I'm a good and enlightened person, who supports Right thinking. Underneath where it says: "At Giganticor, Diversity is Our Strength!", there is a photo of a smiling Chinese man, who appears to be writing equations on a blackboard. He is obviously very smart, and he enjoys toiling for Giganticor. Next to him is a picture of a woman of Latin American heritage, dressed in a power pant suit, far nicer than the kind that Hillary wears; she is laughing unselfconsciously, while seated in a glass-walled board room. She is powerful. At Giganticor, Hispanic women wield great power, behind the scenes. Yes, true -- in my experience, this kind of spontaneous hilarity is not the norm in board rooms, but at Giganticor, Diversity makes everyone happy! And by displaying this cube, I prove that I am not a racist or a "Phobe" of any type, even though I voted against Barack Obama."
So, after I accidentally threw my Diversity Cube in the trash -- and was dutifully reported by a whistle-blowing co-worker (I am not making this up) -- I had to have a meeting with the company's Diversity Czar, HR and a sinister representative from the internal Ministry of Approved Thoughts and Behaviors, where I was told that my micro-chip implantation had failed and that I needed to go back to Sensitivity U for re-training. Suffice it to say, I fought Authority and Authority won, although not before I unleashed a memorable tirade during mandatory "Six Sigma" training (this is where we spent two weeks in a meeting room not doing any actual work, with a grinning, animatronic "moderator" who helped us make paper airplanes cooperatively, learn about "plus/deltas" and how to improve all of our customer CTQ's with our handy statistical tool box), which earned me the moniker "Angry Man." I wasn't really Angry -- I reserve that for people who block the left lane -- merely vexed. Like Emperor Commodus, when he found out that Maximus was still alive.
Anyway, I now have a good friend who toils for a different mega-company that has adopted eerily similar, feel-good, self-esteem raising, Orwellian best practices. I think there is a federal regulation, rammed through by the Chi-Com PAC, that requires all U.S. companies with more than 250 employees to foist this morale and productivity killing multi-culti claptrap on it workers. Dilbert knows whereof he speaks. In particular, such companies are very big on "Awareness." Because being Aware makes us Care. And when we Care, we don't Stare at people with braided back Hair. Thus, each month brings with it a new culture (never American culture), or obscure religion (never something from the icky, Western Judeo-Christian tradition) or little known Holiday (it's Aztec Child Sacrifice Thursday! Feel Free to Bring in Your ceremonial Jade Daggers to Work, but Please do not carry them into the employee lunchroom), to be Celebrated! and Tolerated! in the most tacky, stereotypical way possible. These announcements, churned out by some very well meaning people in the company's Progressive Propaganda section, are comedic gold. "Gold, Jerry, Gold!" I mean, I'm not Asian, but if I were, I think that if all my non-Asian friends and co-workers showed up one day wearing Kimonos and eating with chop sticks, I would not feel "culturally affirmed." No, I'd likely find the whole thing to be incredibly stupid and insulting. (Of course, this is why my nomination to be the Director of the NEA was blocked in committee.) So, whenever my friend receives one of these company-wide missives, she forwards it to me, for additional comment.
Below was my supplement to Asian Awareness Month.
***PLEASE SHARE THESE ADDITIONAL GLAD DIVERSITY TIDINGS!***
Valued Associates -- Asian Immersion Month is just the glorious Beginning of MegaCorp's Diversity Delirium! In June, we will follow up on May's Awesome Asian Adventure with a celebration of the GATHERER PEOPLE OF VARIOUS THIRD WORLD DESERTS! All of us should learn more about these aborigines who, for thousands of years, have lived in roofless mud huts, surviving on a diet of sand fleas and pebbles, with only Al Gore audio tapes provided by GreenPeace for comfort and inspiration! Despite their lack of modern conveniences, they are a peaceful, joyous people who, unlike us, DO NOT DRIVE SUV's! They desire nothing more than to sing, dance and clap their hands while wearing no clothes. If the World was more like them, there would be No Wars, No Cancer, No Famine, No Sarah Palin, No Insurance Fraud and No Downs Syndrome Babies. Amazingly, despite their seemingly "primitive" culture, the GATHERER PEOPLE OF VARIOUS THIRD WORLD DESERTS invented micro-processors, the diesel engine and soap on a rope. And then Thomas Edison and Wall Street Bankers stole their inventions! They have much to teach us, if we will only open our minds. Remember: An open hand cannot punch, only slap; an open eye cannot be blind except from a sharp stick and that is rare; an open mind cannot hate, except those who deserve to be hated, like Rush Limbaugh and baby seal clubbing racist Tea Partiers.
CLICKING DAY
According to Wikipedia, Gatherer People communicate using Clicking Language. This language has no words; the people communicate using a complex series of clicks, grunts and guttural throat clearing noises. In honor of this pure, organic method of speech, June 15 will be Clicking Day at MegaCorp. On this special day, all MegaCorp Associates, Managers, Supervisors, Overseers and Enlightened Corporate Elites must communicate by clicking. NO SPEAKING WILL BE PERMITTED. Employees caught speaking will be sent home and a notation will appear in their permanent file stating that they are "Opposed to Diversity" and "Display Xenophobic Tendencies and Should Be Agressively Medicated."
Perhaps you are reading this and thinking: I'm so excited about Clicking Day, but I have a minor concern about how people will understand each other. Well, we have anticipated and solved that problem: Handy "Clicking Vocabulary Cards" will be passed out two weeks before Clicking Day. These cards will list 100 of the most commonly used Nouns and Verbs in English and provide you with their Clicking translation.
Example: "I have a sucking chest wound from mishandling my Asian Awareness Samurai sword, please ... gurgle ... call an ambulance!" is a simple, clicking phrase, rendered phonetically as: Click, clickclickclick, CLEEEEEEK, cuh, CUH!
A few hours of practice with your cards and you will be speaking like an aborigine in no time! And it will be FUN!
Remember: Our culture is not better than any other culture. Those who learn to appreciate and emulate other cultures are Wise and Good. Those who celebrate their own culture are Jingoists and Nativists, just like Hitler. And he was Bad. Here at MegaCorp, we are constantly striving to create an environment where everyone can feel Assimilated Sensitive Inclusive Non-judgmental Important Noble Equal.
Please be sure your TPS reports are turned in before 4 pm.
*It should go without saying -- no, it never does -- that although I detest identity politics, I'm super-fine with Asians, African Americans, Hispanics, Romulans, etc. However, I reflexively resisted being forced to keep a ridiculous cube -- attesting to my diversity bona fides -- on my desk. "Look, visitor to my office. See that odd cube, next to my in-box? What does it do, you ask? Why, it proves I'm a good and enlightened person, who supports Right thinking. Underneath where it says: "At Giganticor, Diversity is Our Strength!", there is a photo of a smiling Chinese man, who appears to be writing equations on a blackboard. He is obviously very smart, and he enjoys toiling for Giganticor. Next to him is a picture of a woman of Latin American heritage, dressed in a power pant suit, far nicer than the kind that Hillary wears; she is laughing unselfconsciously, while seated in a glass-walled board room. She is powerful. At Giganticor, Hispanic women wield great power, behind the scenes. Yes, true -- in my experience, this kind of spontaneous hilarity is not the norm in board rooms, but at Giganticor, Diversity makes everyone happy! And by displaying this cube, I prove that I am not a racist or a "Phobe" of any type, even though I voted against Barack Obama."
So, after I accidentally threw my Diversity Cube in the trash -- and was dutifully reported by a whistle-blowing co-worker (I am not making this up) -- I had to have a meeting with the company's Diversity Czar, HR and a sinister representative from the internal Ministry of Approved Thoughts and Behaviors, where I was told that my micro-chip implantation had failed and that I needed to go back to Sensitivity U for re-training. Suffice it to say, I fought Authority and Authority won, although not before I unleashed a memorable tirade during mandatory "Six Sigma" training (this is where we spent two weeks in a meeting room not doing any actual work, with a grinning, animatronic "moderator" who helped us make paper airplanes cooperatively, learn about "plus/deltas" and how to improve all of our customer CTQ's with our handy statistical tool box), which earned me the moniker "Angry Man." I wasn't really Angry -- I reserve that for people who block the left lane -- merely vexed. Like Emperor Commodus, when he found out that Maximus was still alive.
Anyway, I now have a good friend who toils for a different mega-company that has adopted eerily similar, feel-good, self-esteem raising, Orwellian best practices. I think there is a federal regulation, rammed through by the Chi-Com PAC, that requires all U.S. companies with more than 250 employees to foist this morale and productivity killing multi-culti claptrap on it workers. Dilbert knows whereof he speaks. In particular, such companies are very big on "Awareness." Because being Aware makes us Care. And when we Care, we don't Stare at people with braided back Hair. Thus, each month brings with it a new culture (never American culture), or obscure religion (never something from the icky, Western Judeo-Christian tradition) or little known Holiday (it's Aztec Child Sacrifice Thursday! Feel Free to Bring in Your ceremonial Jade Daggers to Work, but Please do not carry them into the employee lunchroom), to be Celebrated! and Tolerated! in the most tacky, stereotypical way possible. These announcements, churned out by some very well meaning people in the company's Progressive Propaganda section, are comedic gold. "Gold, Jerry, Gold!" I mean, I'm not Asian, but if I were, I think that if all my non-Asian friends and co-workers showed up one day wearing Kimonos and eating with chop sticks, I would not feel "culturally affirmed." No, I'd likely find the whole thing to be incredibly stupid and insulting. (Of course, this is why my nomination to be the Director of the NEA was blocked in committee.) So, whenever my friend receives one of these company-wide missives, she forwards it to me, for additional comment.
Below was my supplement to Asian Awareness Month.
***PLEASE SHARE THESE ADDITIONAL GLAD DIVERSITY TIDINGS!***
Valued Associates -- Asian Immersion Month is just the glorious Beginning of MegaCorp's Diversity Delirium! In June, we will follow up on May's Awesome Asian Adventure with a celebration of the GATHERER PEOPLE OF VARIOUS THIRD WORLD DESERTS! All of us should learn more about these aborigines who, for thousands of years, have lived in roofless mud huts, surviving on a diet of sand fleas and pebbles, with only Al Gore audio tapes provided by GreenPeace for comfort and inspiration! Despite their lack of modern conveniences, they are a peaceful, joyous people who, unlike us, DO NOT DRIVE SUV's! They desire nothing more than to sing, dance and clap their hands while wearing no clothes. If the World was more like them, there would be No Wars, No Cancer, No Famine, No Sarah Palin, No Insurance Fraud and No Downs Syndrome Babies. Amazingly, despite their seemingly "primitive" culture, the GATHERER PEOPLE OF VARIOUS THIRD WORLD DESERTS invented micro-processors, the diesel engine and soap on a rope. And then Thomas Edison and Wall Street Bankers stole their inventions! They have much to teach us, if we will only open our minds. Remember: An open hand cannot punch, only slap; an open eye cannot be blind except from a sharp stick and that is rare; an open mind cannot hate, except those who deserve to be hated, like Rush Limbaugh and baby seal clubbing racist Tea Partiers.
CLICKING DAY
According to Wikipedia, Gatherer People communicate using Clicking Language. This language has no words; the people communicate using a complex series of clicks, grunts and guttural throat clearing noises. In honor of this pure, organic method of speech, June 15 will be Clicking Day at MegaCorp. On this special day, all MegaCorp Associates, Managers, Supervisors, Overseers and Enlightened Corporate Elites must communicate by clicking. NO SPEAKING WILL BE PERMITTED. Employees caught speaking will be sent home and a notation will appear in their permanent file stating that they are "Opposed to Diversity" and "Display Xenophobic Tendencies and Should Be Agressively Medicated."
Perhaps you are reading this and thinking: I'm so excited about Clicking Day, but I have a minor concern about how people will understand each other. Well, we have anticipated and solved that problem: Handy "Clicking Vocabulary Cards" will be passed out two weeks before Clicking Day. These cards will list 100 of the most commonly used Nouns and Verbs in English and provide you with their Clicking translation.
Example: "I have a sucking chest wound from mishandling my Asian Awareness Samurai sword, please ... gurgle ... call an ambulance!" is a simple, clicking phrase, rendered phonetically as: Click, clickclickclick, CLEEEEEEK, cuh, CUH!
A few hours of practice with your cards and you will be speaking like an aborigine in no time! And it will be FUN!
Remember: Our culture is not better than any other culture. Those who learn to appreciate and emulate other cultures are Wise and Good. Those who celebrate their own culture are Jingoists and Nativists, just like Hitler. And he was Bad. Here at MegaCorp, we are constantly striving to create an environment where everyone can feel Assimilated Sensitive Inclusive Non-judgmental Important Noble Equal.
Please be sure your TPS reports are turned in before 4 pm.
Daddy's Baptism by Pee (a nostalgic remembrance)
I write a lot of nonsense emails while at work (memo to bosses: during lunch hour, of course; during productive, money-making time, I surf ESPN). I've been told by my London-based agent -- he also reps J.K. Rowling, so he doesn't take my calls -- that I should post them on my pathetic excuse for a blog, just to prove that I do occassionally have a fleeting spark of creativity which leads to something, anything, tangible. Below is one such example, written many eons ago when our first boy, Isaac, was an adorable wee tyke with a bladder larger than Secretariat's. I think I will treat this as the first entry in my "Unconventional Child-Rearing Tips for the Misguided and/or Grossly Negligent Parent" series. Our next urine-centric entry -- it's a popular theme -- might be "What to do when your mischievous boys, unwisely left alone in the bathroom, hilariously drink (well, at the very least sip) each other's pee out of Dixie cups instead of brushing their teeth and rinsing like they were supposed to." Btw, I think Tara made me sign a Confidentiality Agreement never again to discuss the horrific, emotionally traumatizing "Pee Incident" and its aftermath. So that disclosure may land me in solitary.
I got the chance -- that is, Tara, despite harboring grave doubts about my abilities -- allowed me to watch Isaac all by my Mr.. Mom self last Saturday, for a whole 8 hours. I had to feed him ("Honey, he's two months old and has no teeth. You can't give him Kix cereal."), change him ("Honey, make sure you don't put his diaper on backwards again. And try to keep the Desitin out of his hair.") and keep the dogs from licking his face after drinking out of the toilet. Simple.
When my Mom found out about my first "solo" mission, she actually offered to drive 4 hours from Virginia to "help" me. Hello?! How pathetic do these people think I am? My son and I were going to have a swell time all by ourselves, thank you very much.
I'm pleased to report -- as an unbiased observer -- that I did a great job, meaning that as far as I know, Isaac did not swallow any sharp, foreign objects or play with matches while in my care. Prior to leaving us, Tara had pumped about 3 bottles of breast milk for our hungry man to chug-a-lug. I've learned that breast milk is a more valuable and precious commodity than diamonds. (Oh, and I've been told that the "breast pump experience" is not unlike strapping the sucking end of a commercial grade Honda leaf blower to one's bosom. Fortunately, I'll never be able to verify this.) Tara warned me that if I spilled Mommy's Milk, or wasted it (what was I going to do? -- squirt it at the dogs just for kicks?) or forgot to put it back in the fridge and let it spoil, she'd have me murdered.
Isaac guzzled that milk like an alcoholic at Oktoberfest slugging pints of Guinness. However, I was surprised to discover that the amount of time it takes a baby to turn milk into urine is approximately 34 seconds. In the span of one hour, I think I changed 5 wet diapers. This kid needs to learn how to use the toilet, pronto. Anyway, it was on the fifth diaper change when Isaac did his best impression of a Super Soaker.
He was wiggling around on the changing table, waving his arms and generally enjoying having no pants on. Just as I was about to put on the new diaper, a faint but unmistakable smile crept across his face, and the pee started flowing. This was not a "tinkle." It was more like a garden hose turned on "jet." Stunned, my primal fight or flight instinct kicked in and I leaped back about 5 feet, which saved me from a direct hit. I think I might have yelled "No, Isaac, outside! Outside!" before collecting myself. With mounting panic, I saw that Isaac's mighty bladder was still pumping. I knew I had to stop the flow, but how? I thought about smothering the stream at its source with the diaper -- still clutched in my left hand -- but worried that would merely deflect the spray in other directions. Instead, I decided to "catch" the pee with the diaper, sort of a Star Wars missile shield defense for airborne pee. This technique was not as effective as I had hoped. I did manage to sop up most of the pee drizzle that got on the carpet with one of Tara's thick, wool socks (surprisingly absorbant), which I then stuffed in the hamper to dry.
All in all though, I'd say Dad's Day with Isaac was a rousing success. And I learned one important parenting lesson that I'm happy to pass on to all the other new fathers:
In child rearing, as in auto repair, the right tools make all the difference. Never use a diaper to catch pee. Instead, use one of your wife's large mixing bowls, preferably not the one she uses to make pie dough.
I got the chance -- that is, Tara, despite harboring grave doubts about my abilities -- allowed me to watch Isaac all by my Mr.. Mom self last Saturday, for a whole 8 hours. I had to feed him ("Honey, he's two months old and has no teeth. You can't give him Kix cereal."), change him ("Honey, make sure you don't put his diaper on backwards again. And try to keep the Desitin out of his hair.") and keep the dogs from licking his face after drinking out of the toilet. Simple.
When my Mom found out about my first "solo" mission, she actually offered to drive 4 hours from Virginia to "help" me. Hello?! How pathetic do these people think I am? My son and I were going to have a swell time all by ourselves, thank you very much.
I'm pleased to report -- as an unbiased observer -- that I did a great job, meaning that as far as I know, Isaac did not swallow any sharp, foreign objects or play with matches while in my care. Prior to leaving us, Tara had pumped about 3 bottles of breast milk for our hungry man to chug-a-lug. I've learned that breast milk is a more valuable and precious commodity than diamonds. (Oh, and I've been told that the "breast pump experience" is not unlike strapping the sucking end of a commercial grade Honda leaf blower to one's bosom. Fortunately, I'll never be able to verify this.) Tara warned me that if I spilled Mommy's Milk, or wasted it (what was I going to do? -- squirt it at the dogs just for kicks?) or forgot to put it back in the fridge and let it spoil, she'd have me murdered.
Isaac guzzled that milk like an alcoholic at Oktoberfest slugging pints of Guinness. However, I was surprised to discover that the amount of time it takes a baby to turn milk into urine is approximately 34 seconds. In the span of one hour, I think I changed 5 wet diapers. This kid needs to learn how to use the toilet, pronto. Anyway, it was on the fifth diaper change when Isaac did his best impression of a Super Soaker.
He was wiggling around on the changing table, waving his arms and generally enjoying having no pants on. Just as I was about to put on the new diaper, a faint but unmistakable smile crept across his face, and the pee started flowing. This was not a "tinkle." It was more like a garden hose turned on "jet." Stunned, my primal fight or flight instinct kicked in and I leaped back about 5 feet, which saved me from a direct hit. I think I might have yelled "No, Isaac, outside! Outside!" before collecting myself. With mounting panic, I saw that Isaac's mighty bladder was still pumping. I knew I had to stop the flow, but how? I thought about smothering the stream at its source with the diaper -- still clutched in my left hand -- but worried that would merely deflect the spray in other directions. Instead, I decided to "catch" the pee with the diaper, sort of a Star Wars missile shield defense for airborne pee. This technique was not as effective as I had hoped. I did manage to sop up most of the pee drizzle that got on the carpet with one of Tara's thick, wool socks (surprisingly absorbant), which I then stuffed in the hamper to dry.
All in all though, I'd say Dad's Day with Isaac was a rousing success. And I learned one important parenting lesson that I'm happy to pass on to all the other new fathers:
In child rearing, as in auto repair, the right tools make all the difference. Never use a diaper to catch pee. Instead, use one of your wife's large mixing bowls, preferably not the one she uses to make pie dough.
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