Monday, October 31, 2005
Tell me this ain't the illinest Jack-O-Lantern ever. That's right, it's the villain himself: MF Doom. Brought to you by Invisiblist at www.okayplayer.com. Straight killin' it in this pumpkin carvin' game. B'lee dat.
Also, my brother, in a fitting tribute to Strongbad from www.homestarrunner.com carved quite an amazing masterpiece. Todd, your piece still remains the single greatest pumpkin carving in the history of the large orange vegetable. However, I didn't get to save the image when you sent it over to me on IM so, Todd, holla atcha boy. Let me have your image so I can throw it up like Kate Moss and donuts.
Speaking of dietary habits (and not of purging specifically) and scary images. Check out Big j3. This was around my max weight of 240. And, no, that's not all muscle. This was when I proudly completed the installation of an antique door leading out into our (Jackson's) backyard. And, now, 28 pounds later, I'm about 10 pounds away from my goal.
Once I hit my goal, we'll do a little before and after comparison. Insults and rude comments directed to Big j3 are welcomed and encouraged. Directing the same to Small j3 will be met with swift and severe beatings. And you can run, but I can catch you--now.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
And now I present, j3's 2005 version:
WHY I [REALLY] WANT A HUSBAND
I belong to the classification of people known as husbands. I am A Husband. And, not altogether incidently, I am a father. Not too long ago, I can’t remember how long because the long days have since started running together, a female friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh from a recent divorce and, hesitantly, was ready to marry again. She had one child, who is, of course, with her ex-husband. As I thought about her one night while I was fixing the kitchen sink (even though I really know nothing about kitchen sinks or plumbing altogether, I’m just expected to), it suddenly occurred to me that I, too, would like a husband. Why do I want a husband for my own?
I would like to wake up late every day of the week and lounge around all day while my husband makes the hour and a half commute through torrential traffic to his terrible job where the work sucks but not so bad that he can’t lie to me about it when I ask the proverbial question every evening when he gets home: “Hi, honey, how was your day?” And while he’s tolerating all the pains of drudging job bringing home the fat bacon (that I’ll get to later), I’ll be at home thinking about what sort of silly daytime television program I would like to consume my required “hours at home.” I want a husband to mow the lawn, to fix the mower, to fill it with gas when it’s low, to edge the yard, to scoop the piles upon piles of dog crap and to do all without arguing no matter how inclement the weather is. In fact, my husband will also be required to do anything that requires being outside. And that means anything. Pruning trees, trimming the hedge, putting up Christmas lights, taking them down, repairing the skylights, inspecting leaks in the roof or damaged shingles no matter what danger it puts him in, taking out the trash, feeding the dogs, watering the dogs and, again, picking up the dogs’ crap, killing anything that does not belong in our backyard but might still be living in it, replacing any damaged portions of the fence, raking leaves and pine needles, resetting the mailbox in case it gets vandalized by some of our friendly neighborhood hoodlums, painting the trim or, well, the entire house if it needs it (I’d help out with picking the colors), braving the harsh winter weather to shovel snow, chunk ice off the driveway and make sure that the sidewalk up to the house is free of any dangers when I invite my friends over for our Friday night social. That’s it! Any work that require me going outside the front or the backdoor or out of the garage unless in my automobile, would need to be done by him in a complete and speedy manner. And, all of this, on one or both of his days off when he expects to kick up his feet and entertain himself. No talking back, whining or complaining. He should come with no emotions attached, a pea-sized brain, a short spine and no soul unless I decide to give him one. He has no opinions or feelings. He will express passion in nothing unless it’s me, giving me money or doing the yard work. It’s his job, really. I read it somewhere.
I want a husband that will yield to my wishes of being more independent. A husband that knows when NOT to hold the door open for me so that I can feel like a more capable person. Yes, a person! That’s what I am. He is not better than me. We are equal and he will tolerate these rants and rages whenever I decide to lay them on him. He will buy me a big ass sports utility vehicle. Yes, an impractical and wasteful automobile that guzzles gas and takes up way more room than is even necessary in the urban environment in which we will live. He will not say anything or even hint a breath when as my passenger in the sports-utility vehicle (that is, notably, not used for anything dealing with either “sports” or “utility”) I cut off another driver, don’t quite fit my big ass sports-utility vehicle in the parking place, use the fire lane as the I’m-waiting-on-someone-inside lane and/or any other violation of conventional driving practices commonly expected of law-abiding citizens. When something goes wrong with the sports-utility vehicle, he will not interrogate me, probe me for the cause, he will begin inspecting the vehicle immediately to find the problem and, if detected, he will fix it. If he can not fix it, he will send it someone who can fix it in a timely manner. The cost I’m not worried about because it’ll be his pocket supporting the bill. He will describe to them in full what he has found and then I will make lightly snide (more jokingly) remarks about how he is less of a person because he couldn’t fix it himself. He will take it. No questions or exceptions.
In fact, he will swallow any criticisms I decide to deal out about his choice of personal style, his hair, his poor since of humor (never mind mine), his terrible choice of media consumption (whether it be music, movies or television shows—God knows the stump can’t read), his friends, his family, everything that he believes in basically. Anything he endorses is open to my wrath and I will deal it out, not necessarily because I like to watch him hurt, but because I like to feel that sort of control. I get off on it. He will not cry from the badgering, he will just smile and nod in approval of my malicious ventures.
He will eat anything I make, smile and nod approvingly every night, never fail. He will smile and hum along to my bad music and he will snuggle with me as we watch sappy love stories on television. He will denounce any movies that have gunfire in them even though the Academy has garnered them in awards. If it doesn’t have the same regurgitated and tragically typical plot as all love stories do, it’s meaningless entertainment for simple-minded individuals. He will subscribe to this notion and will carry it out as I drag him around the video store—he will look happy yet submissive. That is what our marriage will be: one half happiness, one half submission. Actually, we might need to weigh the percentages more to the submission side. Ah, indecisiveness! He will not sigh or show hesitation when I’m having a hard time making up my mind. He will not make any suggestions or recommendations unless I queue him.
He will go to bed at the same time I do and there is only one acceptable response to the words, “I love you, sweetie. Good night.” The response will not be delivered in a mumble but in a hearty and fully audible voice of conviction. He will cuddle with me all night long and when he leaves to go to the restroom in the middle of the night, he will, of course, put the lid down even though, as a capable person, I could do it myself, but I like watching him work arduously at developing trivial habits that favor me.
When the dogs bark in the middle of the night, he will move quickly and quietly to inspect what it is. He will be my protector in the night whether he likes it or not. He will also rid the house of all rodents or pests by all means necessary. He will expose himself to various carried diseases, bacteria and germs without fear. He will annihilate any move organism I ask him to including but not limited to: snakes, raccoons, mice, rats, roaches, spiders, lizards, tarantulas, skunks, beetles, centipedes, millipedes, scorpions, wasps, bees, mosquitoes, rabid dogs, frogs and the friendly neighborhood hoodlum. He will not shudder, scream or yelp. He will kill quickly and methodically.
He will follow me to the grocery store (emphasis on “follow”) and will watch me spend every last penny of his earnings on only name brand, top-shelf groceries that will be thrown away half-eaten and fully-molded two months later. At the clothing store, he will stand close nearby and do nothing but nod, smile and say, “It looks wonderful with your eyes,” or, “Man, you smell so good I could eat you up right here,” with a convincing fervor. All other opinions must be kept to himself.
When I throw a party for my friends, he will spend most of his evening in the back bedroom until I need him to take out the trash so that it does not stink up the kitchen. He will be quiet and orderly. If he gets out of line, I will be permitted to use him as the butt of a few jokes. If present, he will laugh at these jokes. Also, in his moments away from the back bedroom, he will be nothing but pleasant and complimentary to my guests. He will only speak when spoken to. He will speak in short sentences and not attempt to humor or entertain the guest. He will not upstage me. And, as noted above, he has no opinion.
To continue from above, he will be expected to know how all devices in the home function: electronic, gas powered, solar powered or otherwise. When they malfunction he will be expected to bring them back to a functioning state. He will be able to do any necessary wiring, rigging and fixing to make these devices work. This includes everything in the house that is a living organism. Everything else in the house that needs fixing must be left to me because I fear his emotionless disposition on life would make him inadequate in aiding sometimes emotion situations.
My husband will enjoy sex with me, but not too much. He will not laugh, kid, tickle. He will have sex with me in the same way he kills pests—quickly and methodically. Wait, not quickly.
I will belittle his personal problems by bringing up my needs and he will understand this without explanation. He has no problems that are worth mentioning and, furthermore, discussing in detail. However, he will have to lend to my concerns. My issues are top-priority, no matter how insignificant they might seem to his small mind.
My God, who wouldn’t want a husband?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
When we last saw j3, he was about to take off for Red River, New Mexico for a lovely weekend off with his lovely wife and....wait, wait, wait...no, I got bit by a dog. BUT, I did go to Red River for a weekend and it was a delight. I have a few pictures that I'll share at a later time (2006).
Sawx got beat by the other Sox. I can't remember the color of the Sox because, well, it only took the minimum 3 games. That's right, a sweep. So my beloved Red Sox, in the heroic title defense of baseball's world champions, quite frankly, tucked their tail and played dead. It's alright though. I lost my Jebediah beard which was getting long and itchy. Now I'm cleanly shaven and thinning.
I hit a plateau in my diet. I'm about 212-215. I celebrated by having a six-pack of Oreos. They were good. Oh wait, you're not supposed to celebrate a plateau in your diet. Goal still stands at 200-205 and hover around there until I die of natural causes at 88 years old.
Back to sports news, those Houston Astros just might have something going. They're now 6 outs away from going to their first World Series. In fact, I'll have to check the Sports Almanac, but I think this is the first appearance for a Texas baseball team in the World Series. Man, if we could get the Cowboys to "cowboy up" and win a championship and get the Spurs to lock down another championship, Texas will once again prove it's dominance over the Union.
Saddam's trial began. Why don't I care? Not sure. You'd think this would be the "Trial of the Century," but it just seems weird filing "charges" against a tyrant. It's like, "So, Lucifer, you've been a bad boy." I heard that whatever they decided to charge him with was chosen because, "it would be the easiest to convict him of." Don't accuse me of Saddampathy, but that hardly seems fair. Geez, I might get the Spectacular shut down for such a comment. Back to that stupid dog that bit me on the ankle.
He ain't around no more. Gone. Haven't seen him since. And I'm glad.
Wanna kill a few brain cells? Try staining your floor. Holy cow, man. I think I reduced my brain capacity by 30% last night staining our dining room floor. We decided to take on the project because, well, it's asthetically more appealing and improves the property drastically for resale. Also, I was tired of looking at the puppy pee stains that, no matter how much ammonia and scrubbing, never seemed to go away. But, let me tell you, if you're thinking of taking on your floors, respect the drum sander. If not, that ferocious metal monster will eat you alive. Oh, and always make sure your sander has an "off" switch that actually works or it will not only eat you alive, but it'll eat your pet too.
Astros are three outs away with a four-run lead. Pretty comfortable circumstances. Man, they're wrecking Busch stadium after the Cardinals lose tonight. Kinda sad. Wrecking ball will swing on a losing note. Oh well. Sorry Dad, Grandad, Todd. I can't pull for the Cards after they tried to take the Sawx's World Championship away from them. Of course, they didn't try too hard. I mean, we did sweep them. I guess once the Red Sox won their first World Championship in 86 years at Busch Stadium, someone said, "You know, I never liked this piece of crap stadium anyway. Let's build a new one." And everyone agreed. Emphatically.
Oh, in other sports news (this is where everyone thinks that all I so is watch sports), the Texas Tech Red Raiders football team (my alma mater) have charged all the way to #8 in the nation which is simply incredible. Their offense is one of the most powerful in the states and they take it into Austin against the #2 team in the nation, the Longhorns. No matter what happens, really, I'll be happy, but I'm cheering for a win. #8 in the nation, are you kidding me?
Astros just took it. Congrats to the Astros. God knows Biggio and Bags definitely deserve it. Dude, they were playing when I was but a tike collecting baseball cards. I don't think there's one black guy on that team. Just noticed that. Not that it matters. Just a bunch of cornfed whiteboys.
Now, we need Astro to beat the snot outta the other Sox. I wanna see Clemens mow 'em down. Maybe just chunk a fastball at Ozzie in the dugout "mistakenly."
That's it for now. I gotta get out of these fumes or I'm not going to be able to make it outta bed in the morning.
Try looking at this album cover without smiling.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
So, I'm walking back to work after lunch today and I approach a barking dog. Obviously, he was quite agitated as I minded my own and continued walking--without even breaking speed. As I paced along a couple of houses, the dog stayed on my heels and then, without any advance warning, he struck. Like a bear trap he clamped down on my left ankle. Ripping open my sock and tearing a small hole in my khakis. I almost stopped to assess the damage, possibly to kick this mutt's nose into the back of his head, but I did neither. I kept marching along without pause, whencing in pain as my ankle throbbed. I kept moving mainly because there was a woman on the other side of the block who, I think, saw the whole thing go down and I didn't want to pop the dog in the face and then have her blab off to the owner and get some pet owner angry at me. I walk that same route everyday. Geez, now I know what mailmen go through. Anyhow, so I arrive at work and dial up Amarillo Animal Control and report this dog's punkass to the authorities. I also finally checked on my ankle--no bleeding, no broken skin. Thankfully.
I called up my lovely wife and explained to her what had happened. Obviously concerned, she offered me a ride home. I reluctantly agreed. Why reluctantly, you ask? Because I wanted to head back for round two. See how tough this big boy is fighting a guy actually FACING him. Cheapshottin' sonuvabitch.
Anyhow, hopefully the owners of this dog are enjoying a lonely evening in Amarillo while their dog spends a little hard time behind bars. By the looks of this chump, he's already spent some time in there. Dude had prison shoulders. But let it be known, had we met in the dark with no witnesses, I'd whallop on that punk. I'm not totally against putting a dog down. Honestly, if it's that aggressive to snap at a passerby doing NOTHING to agitate him, he might not be beyond correction, but had he pulled the same stunt on the nose of a five year-old child, it would've been an angry father with a baseball bat playing Johnny Law.
Quick plug for a documentary titled MURDERBALL. If you haven't heard anything about it, do a little reading here at http://www.murderballmovie.com/ It's insanely good and so very well done. Just finished watching it with my brother-in-law. And no, it's not a Steven Segal movie.
Have a good Friday everyone. Go Sawx. The big comeback begins tomorrow at 3pm EST.
Lock your dogs up. I'm carrying a tazer gun now.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Anyone need a history lesson? Sox have ALWAYS been suckers for the dramatic. 2003, down 0-2 to the Oakland A's in the division series. We win the third game on Trot Nixon's late inning homer to deep center. We went on to win the series 3-2 finishing off those stupid Athletics IN Oakland. Fast forward to 2004 after getting eliminated by the Spanks in a back-and-forth battle the year before, we sweep the Angels in 3 games then, in the league championship, we come back, once again facing elimination on every out, to come back from 0-3 to win 4-3. Sweep the Cards, World Series Champs. Yeah, that's right, this team always like to make it interesting. Considering the history, one would say that being down 0-2 in a five game series, we're favored to win. I would have to agree.
Friday is game three in Boston. We got our monster and Red Sox Nation in full effect. Hell, if we don't win and we get eliminated, so be it. I got a championship out of this team. So I'm not sad. If that's the case, GO 'STROS! Let's win it for Texas! But, until then...
Sheryl has become quite a fan of our beloved Jackson W. Because of this, I'm posting the following for her. Here is our Jackson in his new favorite spot in the whole house. Wrapped up in a decorative basket like a king cobra waiting for his master to play the magic flute.
He stores away neatly. He curls up nicely and conveniently. Just a cheap little woven basket from a discount store and your dog is gone and out of the way. Never worry about guests tripping over your pet.
And, yes, if you heard the news, he got out again. More news to come. Dude's like a kanine Houdini. Illin' magic tricks. Including disappearing acts. He's a marvel, that Jax.