Sunday, January 23, 2011

Cut-throat Family Time

All weekend long, my son has been roping my girlfriend into playing video games with him. Ordinarily, he would have been outside playing sports or riding his bike. However, it has been below freezing, so he has been cooped up in the house. Finally, on Sunday evening, I could not take it anymore.

"Connor, enough is enough. Stop playing video games. We are going to sit down at the table and play a family board game together. You can pick the game."

Without even batting an eye, he chose:


Now as any parent knows, Monopoly is a game invented in the seventh circle of hell and can take hours upon hours to complete -- even if nobody cheats. Looking for the silver lining, I thought, Hey at least he can practice his math, and I can even introduce him to the art of negotiating. I will take it easy on him, and maybe he will learn a little something about how to bargain.

Soooo, a mere hour and a half later as my girlfriend and I were battling it out to see who would come in second to this tycoon from the third grade, we asked, "Connor, how are you kicking our butts so bad?"

His steely eyed response: "I'm just a businessman."

We could, of course, hardly argue against this point as he owned every single property on the board except Oriental Avenue, one of the cheap blue ones.

My girlfriend then landed on one of Connor's hotels, which took her down to a lowly $2. At least I would be able to say I came in second. I then landed on Community Chest which was a godsend since it meant I had scraped by one of his $1,200 hotels.

Of course, if it isn't big business screwing the little guy, then it's the government. I had to put my last chunk of change in the kitty to pay some sort of taxes.

One turn later, my 8 year old son also put my girlfriend out of the game and left us both with these words of wisdom:

"Sometimes you got to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em."

I'm not sure when Connor started hanging out with Kenny Rogers, but the next time he picks Monopoly, I will "know when to run."

Saturday, January 8, 2011

How to Make a Chef Boyardee Pizza in 20 Easy Steps

  1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit.
  2. Pour 2/3 cup water into mixing bowl. Use 1 cup measuring cup and just estimate 2/3 because finding the right measuring cup wastes too much time.
  3. Open bag of dry pizza dough mix and empty into mixing bowl. Do not use scissors.
  4. Brush half of bag of pizza mix out of hair and eyes and off of shirt so that you no longer look like a Klansman in full regalia. *Note: Do not strike laughing hyena child as visit from Social Services could result.
  5. Stir water and dry pizza mix with whisk.
  6. Add all purpose flour to compensate for overestimating amount of water in wrong size measuring cup.
  7. Stir with whisk.
  8. Painstakingly remove globs of dough from inside of whisk since mixed pizza dough is too thick to shake loose through whisk wires.
  9. Finish stirring dough with spoon.
  10. Coat dough with 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil. Do not bother to dirty up measuring spoon. Estimate as you pour.
  11. Let dough rise in warm place for 5 minutes. *Caution: bottom of plastic bowl may be hot when you remove from oven.
  12. Slop overly oiled pile of gooey dough into middle of wrong size cookie sheet.
  13. Attempt to spread out evenly. After ten minutes, get frustrated and leave hills and holes in place.
  14. Allow son to spread on sauce, pepperoni, and Parmesan cheese.
  15. Tell son to be neat and careful and not to get too close to edges.
  16. When son says, "Oops, sorry, daddy," look in mirror at your hot mess of a self still partially coated in flour and oil and respond "It's ok, baby. Don't worry about it" in magnanimous tone.
  17. Bake for 20 minutes
  18. Do not allow to cool 10 minutes as directed.
  19. Cut and then scoop over sized, droopy, drippy slices into salad bowl.
  20. Burn mouth and say "mmmmmm" while consuming best damn family pizza project on the planet.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Monday, January 3, 2011

Falling off the Wagon

For New Year's, I had thought about resolving not to make fun of people I see in public. I don't mean like forever since we all know that would be physically impossible for me. I mean for just like a week.

However, in that respect, a trip to Walmart for me is like dropping a crackhead off on the corner on a Friday night, shoving a crisp $100 bill in his hand, and saying, "Now Johnny, be a good boy, and go play with your little friends. Just try not to hit the pipe tonight, sweetie."  It just ain't happening.

Plus, anybody who follows my blog or my Facebook status updates knows I make just as much, if not more, fun of myself as I do other people. So if you don't like it, feel free to block me.

Speaking of crack, this guy I saw in Walmart beats anything you will see on PeopleofWalmart.com; my radar first went off as my friend Julie and I rounded the corner in the Pharmacy section where they have the really crappy tasting, berry flavored 5 Hour Energy 6 packs. (You would think they would have a good flavor like orange in the multi-packs, but noooooo, they know we poor bastards will drink the nasty ones because they are cheaper.)

I didn't get a full glimpse of the guy until after we exited the card aisle, where yes they were already putting up the Valentine's crap on January 3. Jesus, Walmart, you skipped right over Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. You racist pigs. I know there is some kind of candy you could attach to the Civil Rights Movement if you just put your little capitalist minds to it. But I digest.

When I finally got a load of this guy in all his full asscrackitude glory, I knew I had to get a pic. I stalked him up and down the aisles like a snow leopard, now blending in, now preparing for the kill. Finally, with his back turned in the checkout lane, I sprang into action with my Android phone and snagged a pic of his big, pasty white butt cheeks hanging over his belted jeans that were cinched about three feet too low. Success!

Or so I thought. By the time I realized the pic had not turned out, there were already two more shoppers in line behind him, thus, ruining the trophy shot. Have no fear loyal followers, as long as Walmart in Elizabeth City remains open, I pledge to hunt him down again.

So why did we go there for 5 Hour Energy shots in the first place? Because like any other red blooded, holiday over eating, belly bulging Americans in January, we decided to hit the gym.

Which brings me to my introductions of our next two participants in today's post: Rudy and Judy. (I have no idea what their real names are, but I already rhymed them in my head, so Rudy and Judy it is.)

Rudy was a thin little fellow and quite short with a nicely developed beard. He didn't really need to lose any weight. I suspect he was very new to the gym, which his attire hinted at. He had on work boots, blue jeans, and a plaid quilted shirt. Vigorously working his elliptical machine, he looked like the love child resulting from the gay union of the Brawny paper towel lumber jack and the Travelocity gnome.

Now on to Judy. Judy, Judy, Judy. I might have ignored Judy but for the fact that, prior to going to the gym, I had a specific request to capture a wild spandexer in its natural habitat, and Judy provided just such an opportunity. Have you ever left a can of biscuits out of the refrigerator by accident, causing them to get warm? Then you peel the outside label off, and the can doesn't open. You then have to insert the tip of a spoon into the seam of the cardboard wrapping the biscuit can and press, resulting in a loud pop and biscuit dough explosion at the seams.  Judy.

Rudy and Judy, I do not call you out because you are at the gym trying to get yourselves in better shape. I applaud you for it. Hell, that's why I was there too. All I am saying is can you just maybe try to dress a little more normally, say in an oversized T-shirt and sweat pants, like the rest of us fat, sweaty bastards in there.

In the end, I guess all I'm trying to convey today are three simple truths that we all already know:
  1. Crack kills.
  2. Spandex should be outlawed. (Though I am curious to see how those new, much advertised Pajama Jeans work out.)
  3. Save the logging apparel for Weyerhauser.
Nuff said.