My wife secured tickets to see Ohio State football last weekend. The last time we ventured onto campus, someone keyed her car, so we decided to Uber. Of course, she had to make a quick run to Target with my daughter first, which meant 3 hours, so I assumed we would completely miss the game. That place is a black hole.
We did get there, just a hair late, and trekked up the stairs. I’m either way out of shape or 112 steps is a bit much. We got to our seat just in time (another 88 steps to get seated) for a Buckeye TD. I gathered my air in the mountainous altitude, then went to find my wife a drink and some food. She doesn’t drink beer, so I had to go all the way to the ground floor again, but only found spiked seltzer and didn’t want her to divorce me, so I didn’t buy it. Back up the stairs. My fat thighs barely fit in my pants now anyways, might as well be muscle.
I jumped in the next line with a soft pretzel and of course, I picked the line with the oldest guy to have ever worked the line. He also had molasses on his shoes or something. 23 minutes later, I got a pretzel. DURING THE GAME. It’s not like I went at halftime and complained. There was a TV in the line, but of course, another TD while I was paying.
I went back up and caught about five minutes before half. At that point, I figured it was easier to piss off the top of the stadium rather than venture back down the stairs. Oh and someone had kicked over my beer when I was gone, even though I had it placed all the way back. My first instinct was to suck the beer off the pavement since it was $8, but I held back, as I was too tired to stoop over. I figure it would be easier to kill and eat another fan to survive rather than go down and wait in the bratwurst line, so at least I’m picking up survival skills.
I hate mosquitoes, aka, Nature’s Ramsay Boltons. The bug version of Jared from Subway. The six legged guy who drinks all your beer when you’re not looking, aka Chris Coen 1998-2004. They are the WORST. I googled mosquitoes for a picture, first story – 7 year old Ohio boy gets encephalitis from a damn mos…flying asshole bug. They don’t deserve a name. Dickbag with wings that bites.
I tried to find a way to avoid the hovering colostomy bags. The advice from the dumb interwebs I got was to not “swat or provoke” them. WHAT? Hey Siri, how do I deal with a burglar? “Let them take your shit.” Well, that was useless. So I decided to tell mos…pimples inside your ear with wings and long biting ugly faces…things I like more than them.
Things I like more than you.
Getting kicked in the balls by my kids. Getting headbutted in the balls by my dog. Getting my balls ripped off in a fly fishing accident. Getting burned with a cigarette. Accidentally drinking an ashcan at a party. Accidentally drinking a spitter at a party. Having my wife tell me “she has a project in mind” for the house. Getting fired. Getting set on fire. Getting set on fire after being fired. Running out of beer and being too drunk to get more. Dieting. Telemarketing calls. Political telemarketing calls. Seeing people’s really smart political posts on Facebook every six minutes. Putting pets down. Taking the day off work and find out they got free pizza. Hangovers. Food poisoning. Being sick where I can’t breathe through my nose. Finding out I’m too fat for my pants and I either have to not eat for three days or buy new pants. Back hair. Ass hair. My eyebrow hair after 35. Hemorrhoids. Being pulled over. When the cat brings a live bird in the house. When that bird is a Jehovah’s Witness. Getting my debit card stolen. Talking to strangers about the weather. Cleaning up puke and/or shit. Flies, maggots, spiders, rabid wolverines, dragons, or politicians. Gluten free stuff. Diary free ice cream. Communists…barely. And lastly, finding hair in my food.
That’s all I have for now, mos…dog shit on my shoe of the insect world. Burn in hell, come back to life and burn again. I hate you.
A couple things this week sparked my memories of the 90’s. I started the 90’s in middle school and ended them in college with Y2K. It was a truly amazing decade, except, looking back, the following.
The 90’s started off great for music and then turned into the worst steaming pile of garbage ever created. Rap and Grunge exploded, R&B was at an apex, Metal was redefined and even Country got huge with popular America for the first time. Then everyone just gave up in the mid 90’s. Boy bands and jailbait girls took over pop, rappers got killed, heroin and suicide took out Grunge and rock was taken over by Creed and Limp Bizkit. When I was in college, I could stick my head out the door and hear five different Dave Matthews Band CD’s going at once. It’s like someone in 1997 got a voodoo doll for good music and set it on fire.
Internet? Sort of. The internet was here!…until your sister picked up the phone. Good bye internet!
Pagers. Before cell phones, I got a pager. Three scenarios. My buddy paged me at my parents’ house instead of calling me…I called him back in an unnecessary move. Other one, my jerk friends would text me a girls’ number, which I would awkwardly call and realize I got pager trolled. Or lastly, mom paged me to call in, which meant party over. Pagers sucked.
CD player destroyed CD’s for every pothole. I had to buy the same CD’s two and three times. Also, almost everyone I know got a CD stuck in their player for weeks. I had Charlie Daniels Greatest Hits stuck in mine and I nearly went to therapy. Four weeks later, I got it out and almost had Charlie Daniels withdrawal like a Stockholm syndrome sufferer. I almost tossed it back in out of habit.
Butt cut. About 3/4 of the guys I hung out with had a butt cut. Mine was a shortened version, but with bangs blended in. Plus the shaved head with bangs only is the worst guys’ hairstyle of the last 50 years, hands down. It looked like your head was set on fire and only the bangs made it out alive.
It wasn’t all bad, to give a little hope to everyone that lived through that time. No social media meant my generation escaped cataloged embarrassment excepting disposable cameras and we didn’t get political posts from sort of friends of friends every five minutes. No one texted – texting has its place, but I’ve literally seen entire tables of people on their phones not talking to each other. Heroin wasn’t destroying every town under 40,000 people in America. They invented the 30 pack of beer. I’ll stop there, that really was the best achievement of the 90’s, sorry internet, here’s your runner up trophy.
We started potty training a while back, then both kids got ear infections, so that set us back. Potty training stinks. Starting over is even worse. We are doing pretty good on the tinkles but my kid like to slam the door for #2 and be alone. While I appreciate this normally, it’s touch to train when you have a toddler screaming at you and pushing you out of the playroom at full strength while you’re trying to convince them to sit on the potty.
Of course, the other fun side effect is that my daughter is all access all the time. I was taking a leak and she came in, hovered her face about a half inch from my stream and watched the result. She looked back at me, “Dada’s pooping!” “Um. That’s not poop, peanut.” “Dada’s pooping! That’s Dada’s butt!” I had to correct her, but I realized I hadn’t thought out what the accepted term was for Dada’s tallywacker. I tried to think like a toddler, which is not as hard I thought normally, except for the penis factor. “That’s Dada’s…wee wee.” She laughed, “That’s Dada’s butt.” My wife yelled from the other room, “Wee wee? Just call it a penis.” Well this is a blast and all, how about I finish the stream before we dive into this fully? I’m an inch from peeing on my kid and have the focus of an amateur bomb technician on his first run. Let’s figure out male anatomy slang maybe in a minute?
Last night my wife and I took our daughter to see Marvel Universe Live. My wife thinks it’s a good idea to tell her about these things early so she asks if we are going for a month straight. She also found a bunch of costumes used on her Facebook mother’s group, which was nice because costumes are about a kidney each new. The bad news is my daughter on Monday wanted to be a turtle (we have no turtle costume), Tuesday the Hulk, Wednesday Thor (we have no Thor costume), and finally, thankfully settled on Spider Man.
It was full throttle sugar. She needed it though, bouncing around the whole time yelling each superhero’s name as they showed up. I was in shock about the $9 wine I got for my wife that was smaller than a buzz ball. I needed the Green Goblin to bust in and rob the beer cart.
There were explosions, lights, dirt bike flips and more action than a bar fight, but Dada’s favorite part is that we got a good parking spot! I’m getting old. Please send help. In all seriousness, my daughter didn’t pick Captain America to wear, so we have some serious faulty parenting to work on or she is probably going to be in jail by seven. I’ll have to step up my parenting/brainwashing/indoctrinating skills.
Another family zoo trip in the books – another fun interaction with the best animal to see: people. The trip was quite exciting. I rode a camel with my daughter. Camel is an ancient word meaning “ball smasher with a hump.” I might as well have volunteered my beanbag to sub into a whack-a-mole game. We also saw a whole multitude of animals, including the following…
Old lady in full zoo keeper garb. She was the best – husband, dressed like a normal old guy, white tennis shoes, slacks, golf shirt. The wife? Full length khaki cargo vest and pants, seventy pockets and a zookeeper’s hat. She was at least 80 and I could only wonder, did she have this from back in the day or had she spent years scouring yard sales for the perfect outfit?
Camo guy. Every. Single. Time. I. Go. To. The. Zoo. I can’t visit the zoo without an army (no pun intended) of camo guys. Not military, but hunter camo. Like the zoo is going to need them to step up and take down a charging elephant. If they didn’t have a conceal and carry policy, I’m convinced they would all have scoped hunting rifles strapped to their backs. HEY RANDY, WE GOT THIS ONE. YOU CAN RELAX.
Quite unexpectedly, poop was there. I guess from the Emoji movie, haven’t parent suffered through that one yet. It was cartoon day and my daughter saw Dora, Scooby-Doo, an Angry Bird (lame) and then the poo de grace, if you will – Poop. My brain went, “Who would dress up like poop and walk around…ME! ME! ME!” The best part was her talking about seeing poop for three days after more than the animals, well, except the testicle crimper known as a camel.
At least I know if things go south with comedy, I can pick up some side cash dressing up as a pile of yesterday’s supper and frighten children. America really is the best country.