I was not expecting it to be this cold.  What is this a freezer?  I woke up this morning to fetch the daily paper.  I was wearing the usual attire, a lime green Speed-O.  I “forgot” to put on my robe, because my next door neighbor is quite a looker.  She’s got a curvy body, AND she collects stamps.  I know, double threat.  

Anyway, I walk outside and my 98% exposed body almost froze to the sidewalk.  I quickly ran out to the curb and slipped.  Apparently human feet don’t have the traction needed to quickly sprint or slowly run across ice.  Although my Aunt Dorothy never seemed to have a problem.  Of course, she had several large bunions and corns, I’m sure those helped her grip into the ice.  

So,  I slip.  Hard.  Things went fuzzy for a little while.  I was dazed, partially because my body had propelled off of the ground so far.   I picked up my paper, “Local Man Jumps Out of Bucket Crane!”  Freezing, I decide to head back in, but not before flexing and doing some calisthenics for the aforementioned neighbor.

As I approached the door, I realized something of the gravest importance.  My second grade teacher WAS named Ms. Raleigh!  I was discussing it several days ago with a friend of mine.  I could have sworn it was Ms. Stevens, but now I remember.  Wow, that was great news.  I was glad to have that finally pinned down, but it appeared that I had bigger problems.  

It would seem that I forgot my key.  It was true.  I was unable to find a place for it on the small neon attire I was donning.  Quite frankly, (cough cough), there wasn’t enough room for it.  Who just yelled, “what about the crotch?”  

Some people might be a little confused.  I put a self locking mechanism on my door because once I forgot to lock my door and some guy stole a plethora of personal belongings, including an alarm clock from the TV show Coach, that I later found on eBay.  

I was locked out and it was freezing cold.  I was out there for five hours.  I was late to work and the mail lady found me passed out trying to squeeze in through the doggy door I installed.  Fortunately for the mail lady, she has an image in her head that I hope she’ll never forget.   

The important thing is that I’ve learned a lesson, and tonight I will be sewing a small pocket on my Speed-Os for tomorrow.  I’ll also have to look into some sort of snow sandal.

Technorati Tags: cold weather, winter, Speedo, slipping, Coach, eBay

Well, it happened.  Mom and Dad have finally forced me to move out.  Yeah, I know, maybe I’m a little bit too old to be doing this, but I think what they’re doing is ridiculous.  

Apparently, my dad thinks I’m cramping their relationship.  Well, I told him I could sleep on the outside of the bed and he could have the middle.  It’s just a mess.  They’ve even threatened to take the car seat out.  I mean that’s just rude.  But that just feeds into another complaint that, “they can’t be driving me a round everywhere.”   

I’m pretty sure my parents know this, but money doesn’t make itself.  Then he says to me, “Doug, I think we’re going to have to start getting basic cable.”  And I said.

No!!!!!!!!

Three hours later he scooped my fetal body off the floor and rocked me to sleep.  I guess I feel a little under appreciated.  I put those railings on the bed for their protection.  I know how easy it is for old people to bust a hip, I should say shatter a hip.  

Just think of all the things I do around the house:  I eat, I sleep, I watch tv, I go to the bathroom.   I even flush the toilet.  What am I? A triathlete?  I don’t think so.  Yes, sometimes we fight about dresser space, but still doesn’t everyone?  

I mean, how difficult is it really for my arthritic mother to cut up my steak before I eat it?  She even complains about the hot dogs, and that’s soft meat.  I just don’t get it.  After all my years of service they’re letting me go.  Well, I don’t think so.  I don’t want to be an accomplice to their failing marriage.  We’re a family, and families stick together.  

That’s why I checked us all into an assisted living center.  That way, we can stay together and we have some nice lady to cut my meals for me.  Oh, and get this, we don’t even have to get out of bed to go to the bathroom anymore.  They gave us three of these buckets.   Sweet.  Yep, everything turned out for the best.  And we’re all living the high life.

(Since the writing of this statement, my parents have since divorced.  I. on the other hand continue to live assisted and I couldn’t be happier.)

Technorati Tags: moving out, parent’s house, assisted living, nursing home, steak, divorce

I have a hamster.  Her name is Betty and she just turned 6 months old.  Anyway, I guess she’s going through some sort of mid life crisis or something.  The reason I say that is because she approached me yesterday and told me that her biological clock was ticking and that she was lonely.  

I did try to hook her up once with a neighbor’s hamster, Earl, but he was a little bit of a drinker.  He takes a couple of drinks and then he gets real belligerent and starts throwing litter around her apartment.  It was a very unhealthy relationship.  I think he was hitting her too.  I tried to convince her that he wasn’t right for her, but sometimes we get blinded by love.  

My friend Lou has a hamster named Pete, but he too had his share of problems.  Pete was obsessive.  He just couldn’t get enough exercise.  He was always on that wheel, and I know Betty felt neglected.  He was also pretty religious, and that can get scary sometimes.  On the other hand he dressed like a million bucks.  I think he was one of those metrosexuals.  His coat was beautiful, but Betty told me that he would go to great lengths to avoid physical contact.  Whatever that means?  

Understandably, Betty has been pretty upset.  She came into my bedroom last night and told me she wanted to have a baby.  I began to explain to her that the physical logistics of the whole situation just wouldn’t work.  She  cut me off and told me she wanted to go to a "bank."  

I was relieved.  

So, she brings home this book with all the prospective hamster candidates and we begin to look.  The donors are broken down into sub categories such as nobel prize winners and athletes.  We looked through the book and laughed at some of the haircuts and the hamsters that were donating strictly for money.  It was a difficult process because there are so many things one must take into account.  Betty wanted a guy that was going to live more than a year.  It’s just good genes.   She was also concerned about hair loss.

Some of the smarter hamsters looked nerdy and had oily hair, so they were out.  A lot of the jocks looked borderline retarded and the business men had thin mustaches.  

She finally narrowed it down to two candidates.  Johnny, number 573, and Robert, number 1,028.  They are both wonderful choices, but I think a prefer Robert.  He looks more romantic and he has a butt that won’t quit.  

Betty still hasn’t decided, but she goes in for the procedure next Wednesday.   I was worried that they wouldn’t be able to find latex gloves small enough, but she assured me that everything would be fine.  I’m happy she’s doing something for herself for a change.   

I hope we don’t lose her though, because I don’t think I’m ready to buy my thirty second hamster.  I might wait a week to let myself get over it.   But, if everything goes right we might have a little one running around here soon.  I’ll buy bubble gum cigars for everyone!

Technorati Tags: hamsters, sperm bank, new baby, having a baby, bubble gum cigars

I was recently invited to an event.  The invitation was spectacular in color and wording.  On the front of the invitation was a picture of a homeless man and his wife with silly grins on their faces.  When I opened the card it said, “Join us in our new house, knock at the energy savings symbol, take off your shoes by the Fridgidaire label, and help us warm up our house”  

It was a sweet and sentimental gesture.  It was obviously a homemade card because I don’t remember getting paid for that photo or having a wife with a beard.  Of course I was heavily sedated during that part of my life, so who knows?  

The invitation had all the specifics, but at the bottom it had those dreaded words, “please bring a dish to pass.”  The phrase has haunted me for years because of a series of incidents that resulted from my failure to properly understand the verbiage.  

In 1995, I was invited to a retirement party for some old guy who smelled like cheese.  Apparently, he had put in 75 years of service, and thought it might be time to quit.  Actually, God decided he should quit.  He died.  We just called it a retirement party.  

I arrived at the party with a dish to pass.  Surprisingly, I was the only person who interpreted the phrase, “a dish to pass” as woman of ill refute.  My decision to wear pleather pants was also ill-advised.  

The second incident occurred when I misread my invitation.  Against better judgment, I arrived with a 30 pound uneatable sword fish at my niece’s birthday party.  Things went horribly wrong when it was misinterpreted as a piñata.  I should have brought ponchos.

The final incident occurred when I was invited to a soup kitchen luncheon.  I literally brought a Pyrex dish.  Twelve starving children slipped into a coma because I failed to provide the necessary nutritional provisions.  

Oh, and one kid choked because I forced him to eat a napkin as that, “would be better than nothing.”  He died.  I later learned that he was just helping for the day.   I found out that he had already been to a pancake and sausage breakfast earlier that morning and was from what I understand stuffed.

I now know what a dish really means.  Maybe I’ve always known what a dish was, but was afraid to bring it because of my fear of casseroles.  I don’t really want to get into it, other than saying it had dried tuna and hair.  

I think I’ll bring some cole slaw!

Technorati Tags: party, invitations, dish to pass, casserole, Frigidaire, Pyrex, tuna, coleslaw

While recently visiting a certain restaurant that plays favorites with a certain day of the week, I saw her, or should I say them.  

The shirt she had on looked to be a fabric swatch from JoAnn Fabrics.  The doily she was wearing left nothing to the imagination.

I’m pretty sure the waitress set her drinks there.  She had ordered a martini, but the stem of the glass was  missing.

She was sitting with what I would assume was her boyfriend, because he had that look on his face that said, “oh yeah, that’s my girlfriend.  What?”  He was a muscular man, approximately 5’9” and 157 lbs.   He was also wearing a Backstreet Boys T-shirt, which was pretty intimidating.  I’m not even going to talk about the trucker’s hat he was wearing slightly turned to the left.  

Now that the picture has been painted, like a Monet, we’ll see if I can’t get it to turn into the Edvard Munch it became.  

I calmly asked the woman where the chest rooms were located, which for some reason elicited a punch from, let’s call him Biff.  I stumbled backwards, when he struck me with a Van Dam kick to the face.  

After a paralyzing pain shocked my body, I fell face first into pleasure land.  I woke up twelve days later in an ICU with tubes in my front and back sides.  

Although the pain was excruciating, I was told that the reconstructive surgery went well.  They seemed confused when I asked if muscle rehabilitation would make me look less like the elephant man.  They promptly informed me that there was no way to exercise a five pound bulge off my forehead.  

Hopefully, it’s not too noticeable when I go into work tomorrow.  They’ll probably think I’m dressing up again.  In the positive column, I can now sue all the hat makers who continue to claim that one size fits all.

Technorati Tags: T.G.I. Fridays, JoAnn Fabrics, nipples, waitress, Backstreet Boys, Monet, Edvard Munch, Jean Claude Van Dam

I recently had another lapse in judgment.  While anxiously awaiting the weekend, I devised a plan to excite my fellow workers. 

The plan consisted of a small boom box and enough sequins to blind Richard Simmons. 

At roughly two o’clock the music began to play, and I emerged from the bathroom dressed in a sparkling jumpsuit constructed the previous night while watching Roker On the Road.  The music blared through the halls, as I danced to Lover Boy. 

Everybody is working for the weekend I thought.  I was wrong. 

Apparently, Gary has to work until five on Saturday and Loraine until six.  Ted, Carol, and Franklin are working on Sunday.  I was disappointed to find out that I too would be working Saturday afternoon, something I could have realized by simply looking at the calendar. 

For the second weekend in a row I would miss my paid programming, fingers crossed they don’t air the Gazelle episode. 

I finished the dance to stay strong for my coworkers, but inside I was a mess. 

After the dance, my boss called me into his splendid office where we spent the next fifty minutes discussing the sexual harassment policy. 

I guess in the midst of my gyrations, unbeknownst to me, a second person became part of the show.  According to my boss, he appeared shy at first, but later gained confidence.  I examined the suit, and the threading had snapped.  Therefore, I am currently entrenched in a legal battle with Sunbeam. 

In the plus column, I finally succeeded in my attempt to spread joy and excitement.  People laughed for the remainder of the day.  I could see them pointing at me, and I can only assume that they were saying, “there he is, that’s the guy that cheered us up that one time!”

Technorati Tags: Lover Boy, Working for the Weekend, Richard Simmons, boom box, Roker on the Road, the Gazelle, sexual harrassment, SunBeam

Well, there’s not too much I can say about this one.  Imagine my girlish glee when I woke up this morning to put on my costume.  It’s like buying a new unitard, but better.  Much better. 

I woke up at approximately 3 o’clock in the morning, as my costume took only a few hours to assemble on my body.  All hand crafted, it was a thing of beauty. 

Very few men have taken the time to construct a complete  costume of the Death Star.  The trick was making the costume big enough to elicit the comment, “That’s no moon, it’s a space station.”  I painstakingly carved in every room, while making a scale replica of Grand Moff Tarkin. 

After I was lubed into my car, I was off to work, excited at what my fellow coworkers might think about my masterpiece.  Surely I would receive accolades as if I had won one of those Spanish Language Academy Awards, “Los Oscos.”  Craftsmanship like this hasn’t been seen since my father repaired the shower head with a hardworking elephant a la The Flintstones. 

When I stepped into the office, I was disappointed.  Does no one celebrate the sanctimonious holiday that is Halloween anymore?  Apparently, it’s just another holiday that has disintegrated out of society’s watchful eye, much like National Missing Children’s Day. 

Before I could chastise my fellow workers, my boss calls me into his splendid office.  “Doug why are you…”  “Well why aren’t you sir?  I must say.  I wake up every Halloween and look forward to the tricks and treats.  I have candy and joy buzzers in my car, and what you’re doing sir, is reprehensible.”  “Doug it’s the first.”   “Of November?” “Yep”   “Duly noted.”  

My dreams were crushed as I began to piece together the warning signs from the previous day.  The “power failure’ that kept the lights dimmed for the entire afternoon,  Janice’s punch, and  Bob’s toga.  It was true, I had missed Halloween. 

Wait!  I forgot to set my clock back?  Oh.  Someone’s telling me now that setting your clock back would only account for an hour, and I would have still missed Halloween. 

As I squeezed through the door and back out to my car.   I realized that I could never get back into the driver’s seat without assistance and that my bold statement about never needing a daily planner because “I’m a lock box” had officially bitten me in the ass.

Technorati Tags: Halloween, Star Wars, Grand Moff Tarkin, Death Star, Academy Awards, The Flintstones, Daylight Savings Time

While my affiliation to such animal rights groups stays in limbo, I write with a heavy heart.  By limbo I mean, refusal to join PETA or any other animal rights group. 

Both animal rights and animal cruelty groups were both making wonderful offers for me to join this past week, making my decision difficult. 

The animal rights group was shoving soy burgers and crappy frozen dinners at me.  Meanwhile, the Animal haters were logically explaining the rules of evolution while calmly pointing a 12 gauge shotgun at me. 

Both groups were pitching convincing offers.  I felt wanted and beautiful.  In the midst of this internal debate, I drove down the beltline.  The beltline is the term used for the main highway that runs through Madison. 

While driving, I spotted a white Corsica, circa 1988.  Perched atop the small luggage rack, which could probably accommodate a small piece of carry on luggage at most, was a large oversized male deer.  The deer looked happy despite the fact that it had been field dressed and was sitting atop an old Corsica. 

What the driver of the vehicle failed to realize was that his prize catch was bleeding profusely and blood proceeded to drip down the back of the white car.  It was unsettling, especially when I looked to my left and found the driver next to me frantically running his windshield wipers. 

Well, this threw one hell of a monkey wrench into this quagmire.  On one hand I love sports and meat, and on the other hand I love cute dogs and Paul McCartney.  So after hours of analysis I have come to a conclusion. 

I will be a moderate. 

Do I think animals should have rights?  No, they cannot read.  Do I think that we should kill puppies? Hell no!  (Unless for some reason they got extremely annoying)  Do I want to continue eating meat?  Why, of course, I love the Outback Steak House.  Will I eat dog?  No.  (Unless the Chinese restaurant I frequent puts it in the moo goo gai pork without my knowledge)  Will I search out animals to hit with my car? Also, a no.  Will I shoot a giant squid that threatens to eat my eggo waffle?  Yes, but not before asking him to leggo. 

These are the guidelines I’ve set up for myself, to appease both sides.  This way I can connect with everyone, except for PETA members and gun lovers, but pretty much everyone in between. 

So, if you’ll excuse me I have a hamburger to eat while I pet a stray dog.  Does anyone have any rabies spray?   What do you mean they don’t make it?  I’m drooling?  Aw Shoot.

Technorati Tags: PETA, animal rights, animal cruelty, shotgun, hunting, deer, Paul McCartney, Corsica

I’ve found that, the scoffing at others’ beliefs only brings a wrath from God like no other.  When attending a catholic service, a limp-wristed wave at Holy Water will unleash unruly hell.   God forgives a lot, but when you mess with his water, you better watch out sucka. 

Quicker than you can say Supercalifragil…..(Maybe I should use a shorter word)  Faster than you can say Ambisal.  Perfect.   Faster than you can say Ambisal, He’s on you. 

Although this time factor isn’t exactly true.  He takes his time, and gets around to it when he can.  Honestly, you’re one person in a world of billions.  He’ll get to you, probably after lunch.  Just in time for you to get a false sense of security and then BLAMMO, he hits you with some gum on the shoe. 

Doug, that doesn’t sound bad?  Wait for it.  Then your remote stops working, and your wife burns your lunch.  You decide to get your paper, only to find it stolen.  The day from hell is just beginning.  The next thing you know, you’re riding a bicycle downtown in a white leather jacket with fringes hanging from your sleeve.  A normal day to some, but not you. 

Things are starting to get jacked up, but it’s just starting.  While stopping to yell at complete strangers, you roll your ankle on a curb.  The pain is excruciating, and you pass out.  You wake up three days later on the same street.  No one bothered to help you because garbage collection is a mere days away.  In the meantime, all of the Indian shop owners have piled their garbage around you for the pick up. 

You dust yourself off,  but something doesn’t feel right.  You go to the shop window to examine your reflection only to find, that a garbage bag has rubbed off a considerable amount of hair.  You now have a skullet and alas, someone has stolen your beautiful jacket. 

Luckily, they left your banana bicycle, but the seat has been removed.  You struggle to uncomfortably make your way home. 

When you arrive home, you discover that a group of four chimpanzees, stole your two children and ate them.  You go to the insurance office to file the claim, but your policy doesn’t cover chimp attacks, because you opted not to pay for the coverage. 

Finally, driving to your house, which you can see burning in the distance, you get in an accident.  You don’t die and your car isn’t scratched, but your airbag kicked your ass.   For some reason, your airbag must have been a limited edition and had fists.  It also had so much fury that it busted up the windshield pretty good, making the car unusable. 

All of this because you dismissed the Holy Water.  So watch yourself.  The most insignificant and nonchalant response can infuriate God in proportions that you would’ve never thought possible. 

So, the next time you encounter a cup of Holy Water, you best take a cozy bath and soak God in.  I’ve also learned that one must respect all religions.  Except for Hippies.  God laughs at them too. Amen.

Technorati Tags: nuns, Holy Water, God, Ambisal, Catholic, banana bike, leather jacket, chimpanzees, hippies