Friday, April 30, 2010

Words To Live By

Misfortune favors the bold.

If at first you don't succeed, sue.

"One in the hand is worth two in the bush" would make a good punchline in a porno.

When the going gets tough, the tough get owing.

Look before you leap out of the limo with no underwear on.

No rest for the wicked.

Early to bed and early to rise makes you miss out on the night life.

All work and no play make Jack a successful stock broker.

Cleanliness is next to an OCD diagnosis.

An Apple a day keeps Bill Gates at bay.

Winning isn't everything, but it will be once they finally get rid of the damn BCS.

You can't buy happiness, but you can borrow it from a payday loan provided you don't mind the 300 percent interest.

The best things in life are free, but the Wal-Mart DVD value bin is still a damn good deal.

It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you're able to deny afterward that you used performance-enhancing drugs.

Music tames the savage priest.

All kids' toys from China are poison.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Tecmo Bowl Throwback Update On The Way

I love the Xbox 360 game Tecmo Bowl Kickoff, which is a pitch perfect replica of old-school Tecmo Super Bowl for the Super Nintendo. It's everything I hoped for and more, finally adding decent online multiplayer to the best football game ever created.

The online play, though, is crippled by an anomaly that lets losing players quit games midway through without being punished with a loss on the leaderboards. It's also annoying that you have to use pre-set playbooks in online play. Hoping against hope for some kind of fix to these issues, I sent this email to a Tecmo PR rep:

Please please please please release an update that punishes people for quitting online matches by giving them a loss for forfeiting and gives the other person credit for a victory. Also, let people customize their playbooks for online matches. Other than that, perfect game, but if you don't fix these problems your online community won't sustain.


And about an hour later I was elated to get this reply:

Update from the producer:

We're working on pushing a title update to fix the issue with online matches. Hopefully it'll be out by next week.


So next week all those scared, pathetic wusses who fled when I was whipping them last night won't be able to repeat their offenses against humanity. Hallelujah!

Gun Control

Although I am terrified of guns and will never own one, I don't begrudge people who keep them around. I just think they're a false security blanket that won't actually help you prevent a late-night break-in and are more likely to harm yourself or someone you love. Or someone it would be really awkward to kill, like your next-door neighbor's cat. Do that and you'll have a hard time asking them to get your mail for you the next time you go out of town.

I understand gun ownership more if you've got an empty nest. Firearms are impossible to keep safe from kids unless you lock them unloaded in a safe with a separate safe for the ammo. So if someone breaks in on you how could you possibly have enough time to unlock both safes, load the gun and cap the intruder? If people are bold and crazy enough to bust down my door, I'm not going after the dudes. My defense plan is to scoop up the kids and some important video games, then run away or hide while dialing 911.

If you take the Yosemite Sam route, you'd better be a sharp shooter under pressure. You do, however, have great odds of destroying your TV or computer, which is awesome because then you have a great excuse to go out and buy better ones.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Fast Talking

I took four years of Spanish in high school and can decipher the language if I stare at a sentence for a few minutes and look up a few words on Google. Sometimes when I'm watching Spanish-language subtitled movies I think I understand what's being said because I'm looking at the subtitles while listening to the words and my egotistical brain starts tricking itself into thinking I actually understand the language a little bit.

Then I go out into the real world and someone speaks actual Spanish and I'm lost. The words go by in a 110mph mega sentence and I can't decipher a word. It's for this reason that I'm sure I will never be able to fully comprehend Spanish or any other fast-spoken language. That goes for English, too. I can barely understand half of what Micro Machine Guy or auctioneers or horseracing announcers say. To me it's

Andheeeeescominaroundthebackstretchgoingfortheinsidepositionthreequarterlegthsaheadofstormingsuepullingintothethreequartermileamakahannukahsupercalafragilistaimsecretlytalkinggibberishbutyournonethewiserbecauseivelostyouandbythewayphilihadsexwithyoumommaaaaaaaaaandscarletsunshinewinsthekentuckyderby

Am I alone here?

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

New Laws The Arizona State Legislature Should Consider

-Ban Burritos: Keep them around and you'll never get rid of those pesky Mexicans. It's like milk bowls and stray cats.

-Fund Robotic Hand Cannon Program: Every citizen will have a semi-automatic robotic arm cannon with a silencer and rocket launcher capabilities fused to their dominant appendage.

-Forbid Health Care: Not only will Arizona ignore federal health care reform, but health care will not be allowed in any form whatsoever, in order to protect our Constitutionally-mandated right to die of pneumonia.

-Burn Every Public School To The Ground: The vacant land will be used for shooting ranges. And as an added bonus, this won't cause significant harm to our No. 49 in ranking education.

-Recognize George W. Bush As President Forever And Ever: He may not have been perfect, but at least he's got an authentic birth certificate and didn't choose to infringe on our civil liberties. Well, except for that whole Patriot Act thing.

-Ban Gibberish Languages: This is America, dammit, so speak American or go back home to your stupid country. Correct grammar and spelling optional.

-New Official State Bird: The Illegal Immigrant-Spotting Police Helicopter will replace the cactus wren.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Infinite Comedy

Kids provide infinite comedy. Yesterday 3-year-old Luke soaked his clothes by messing around with an Iron Man mask squirt gun -- makes it look like he's spitting -- outside.

He came in and asked for new clothes, so I stripped him down then went to dig out a fresh outfit. When I came back he was fending off his 1-year-old sister, Emma, who had just noticed that Luke had a penis and kept pointing at it and trying to grab it, saying "this" over and over again. Luke shoved Emma away from him. Emma, miffed at the indignity, began smacking Luke across the face again and again. "No, Emma," Luke said. "Hitting hurts," repeating the scolding Jessica has given him time and again. "You get time out, Emma."

Thursday, April 22, 2010

I Wonder What A Drew Rosenhaus Guarantee Means

Superagent Drew Rosenhaus guaranteed client Rob Gronkowski, a former Arizona tight end, would be chosen in the first round of the NFL Draft.

Gronkowski didn't get picked, which everyone except for Rosenhaus and Gronkowski knew would happen. After all, Gronkowski hurt his back before last season started and didn't play all year, then chose to enter the draft in an effort that stunk of desperation, as if he was trying to cash out without having to prove he could still play at his pre-injury level. Since Gronkowski entered the draft partially due to Rosenhaus's ill-advised guarantee -- who wouldn't want to believe it when a smooth-talking power player tells you you're a surefire multimillionaire? -- I'm wondering what Rosenhaus's guarantee entails.

I say the agent owes Gronkowski the difference between Gronkowski's eventual salary and whatever the Saints pay the No. 32 pick, cornerback Patrick Robinson.

Rosenhaus should also vow to no longer fill gullible, egotistical Arizona superstars' heads with lies and thus rob the players and the fans of the success they deserve.

Things From The Future That I Never Want

1. The Minority Report hologram computer that lets you move things around with your hands -- Seems sort of labor intensive, no? When I'm dicking around on the computer I don't need a workout. Just some mouse clicks and key macros will do just fine for me, thanks.

2. The death ray -- If I'm not to be trusted with a gun, something that gives its unintended victim a chance to live, I really shouldn't be messing with no death rays.

3. The tunic -- They don't have pockets, and although I have no fashion sense it would be sort of depressing to look in my closet and see nothing but metallic tunics. How would I let people know I like the Arizona Cardinals without having to talk to them?

4. The holoband from Caprica -- Mario Kart and Tecmo Bowl are addicting enough. I don't need to be plugging in to a futuristic Second Life that's even more of a time suck.

5. Hovercars -- Every now and then I'll screw up when I'm driving and hop a curb. Translated to air driving, that would mean a 54-car accident that ends in death for all. No thanks.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

My Private, Confidential Note To Golf, NASCAR, The NHL And NBA

Do not read this unless you happen to be one of the parties to which I'm addressing this directive. If you stumbled upon this post by accident, move along because there's nothing for you to see here.

OK, boring sports that last too long and have 5-minute offseasons. I've gathered you hear for a reason. While all of you have more than your share of redeeming qualities -- well, except for you, NASCAR. Oh, and you, too, golf -- you fail at life because your seasons never stop. If you don't give fans a chance to miss you, lament how tough it is to deal with life without you and wonder what it will be like when you come back, people will start to hate you at best and become apathetic to you at worst.

Your championships mean nothing unless you give the winners and their fans -- and especially all the losers they violated -- a chance to meditate on the implications of their dominance.

Take a look at the NFL. Did you see how the media went crazy today when the league did something so pathetically insignificant (although on measure incomprehensibly awesome) as release its schedule? Realize, for a moment, that there is virtually no mystery to NFL schedules because every game and its location is predetermined by a set formula. All the NFL had to do to make the sports world swoon was announce that "Yes, you know those 17 weeks of games we have every year? We're doing that again and we've even put them in order!"

The reason for the reaction is the NFL treats us like lovers who give us the best night of our lives, only to throw us out on the streets and not talk to us again for half a year. Meanwhile, you guys are like yapping puppies, so eager to please and hard up for attention you won't stop trying to hump our legs for five seconds.

So please, NHL, NBA, PGA and NASCAR, just stop for a few months after your current seasons end, just to see how things go. And NASCAR, go ahead and just stop.

What Tarot Cards Really Mean

Sometimes you can get down in the dumps if you ask Tarot cards how your career prospects are going to turn out and you keep getting the death card. That's because you're not reading them in the right way. The beauty of Tarot cards is that they're so vague, and every symbol can be interpreted in a hundred different ways. If the cards actually could predict the future with precision, people would use them to find out lottery numbers, scores of tonight's NBA playoff games and which talk show host Jay Leno will randomly have fired.

So the death card can just as well mean you're going to "kill it" in that next job. And this is why without ever looking I can guarantee you that every dealing of a Tarot deck for me will predict that I will become a mega-billionaire king of everything. Because that's what the death card means to me.

Monday, April 19, 2010

My 3 Year Old Is Smarter Than Me Now

I've always been confident that peoples' kids turn out to be smarter than them eventually. I remember being able to run little ruses on my parents at age 5, so I figured it would take at least that long for Luke to surpass me.

Turns out I was a couple years short.

Yesterday, just to be a dick, Luke locked Jessica and I out of the house. Despite our protests, he calmly flopped on the couch and started watching Space Jam. No matter what sort of threats we yelled at him he was unmoved, wise enough to know there was nothing we could do to him because there was a bolted glass door separating him from any punishment.

Luckily the garage door was still open, so I was able to breach Luke's defense's that way, throw his ass in time out and give him a stern lecture about the consequences of his actions. No TV, no playing in the sand box, no good snacks for the rest of the day.

"Aww, man!" Luke whined.

Oddly, I wasn't as mad at him as I was proud.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Sniping In Video Games Is One Of The Most Awesome Things Ever

Sniping in video games is basically my favorite of all activities in life. It's incredibly fulfilling on many levels. It's incredibly fun to crouch far away, watching your enemies mull about, not realizing what's coming. Then you get your gun out, zoom in on the unsuspecting marks and decide which one to send to digital hell first.

Popping the first one, watching the pretend blood spurt out of the neck to make a mini-geyser where the head used to be, is phenomenal. Then seeing everyone freak out and scurry, and then raining death upon them as well, is sublime.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

So Double Downs Are The Cure For Swine Flu

I'm reasonably sure that the malady I've been battling the past several days is swine flu. I have all the symptoms -- fatigue, sore throat, headache, fever -- save for the vomiting and diarrhea. (By the way, high five to my strain of the swine flu for choosing that symptom as the one to leave out). The self-diagnosis makes even more sense given that I am the only one in the household who came down with the flu, and was also the only one not to get an H1N1 vaccination.

Anyway, I didn't make a marked improvement until I ate a KFC Doubl Down. Which means by scientific decree, Double Downs cure swine flu, and possibly all diseases. Thank you, KFC. As video kills radio stars, you destroy H1N1.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Once When I Was A Kid

I woke up in the middle of a night and felt a furry claw scrape my clothes. I've always wondered what it was, assuming it wasn't a nightmare. A badger? A raccoon? A ghost bear?

Thankfully it never returned. But whatever it was, it was rude. Because who goes around scraping kids in the middle of the night? I demand an apology from you, claw creature. If you're reading this feel free to make nice by leaving a comment.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Double Down

The KFC Double Down

Before I get into a review of the KFC Double Down, let me dazzle you with an edict I will enact once I finally come to power: All standalone KFCs must be shut down.

Hold up, now, before you start planning a coup d'├ętat (phrase totally cut and pasted from Wikipedia), focus on my exact wording: STANDALONE KFCs are what must be shut down. And the same goes for Taco Bells. No KFC or Taco Bell should operate separately, but rather must be joined into glorious Kentacko Bells, such as the one located about a mile from my home. The place where a lifetime of misery ended and my new era, filled with regular doses of the Double Down, began.

The reason for this union can be found in the Bill of Rights, which states plainly that man was not meant to survive on a meal of fried chicken alone, because what's he supposed to do about his Grilled Stuffed Burrito fix? Nor can a human subsist simply on microwaved pseudo-Mexican food. You need a biscuit to be complete. And while we're reaching for ideals here, let's accept Kentacko Bells as only the minimum scenario for utopia, yet strive for Kentacko Huts, which also add Pizza Huts into the fold, and which seemingly only exist in northern Phoenix. For the Lord to have manifested such a perfection in such a bilious hellhole is to prove his providence in placing shreds of hope in darkest despair.

Another mark of Godly excellence is the Double Down, pictured above. It's a cheese and bacon sandwich with two pieces of fried chicken replacing bread slices. Some have railed against the sandwich as a sign of the wretched excess of our times. Yet these people have railed wrong, because the Double Down is not too much, but not enough. Roughly the size of a Snack Wrap, the Double Down is laughably overpriced at $5. Resultingly, the calorie count is but 540. You get more calories that if you accidentally swallow some toothpaste.

Despite the overwhelming cost, I struggled throughout the day with the quandary I knew I'd face come dinnertime. The angel on my left shoulder sternly demanded I get only one Double Down, and thus risk withering down to nothing, while the devil on my right shoulder insisted I get two of them, and as a result have so little money left over that I would surely face foreclosure on my home.

I placated the angel and devil by telling them they were both right. As they congratulated each other in smug satisfaction, I interjected "But you're also both wrong! I am smarter than you ninnies and have devised a better solution: I shall have one Double Down and also a bean burrito! For this is a Kentacko Bell and I will taste the rainbow, beyotches."

So I ordered the Double Down and burrito, remembered to snap a picture of the former, and during the 90 seconds it took me to devour both noted that I could taste neither the bacon nor the cheese because fried chicken, especially the kind the Colonel makes, was not built to complement or yield to other flavors, but to dominate them. And of course I was still hungry after eating the Double Down, so luckily I had that burrito to stave off manorexia.

So there you have it: Do not order the Double Down to fill yourself up, or to appreciate the bacon that is rumored to be contained therein. Order it to fly too close to the sun, to dream like an insomniac and plan for a better world.

And don't forget that bean burrito chaser.

Going Viral

Forget all this Weight Watchers and South Beach and Atkins Friendliness and juice fasting. If you really want to lose weight, and lose it quick, get infected with a nasty virus. Plus you'll get a vacation.

The first day you'll be stuck in bed, unable to move, but your fever will be torching those pounds off. Plus, since your head throbs whenever you so much as get up to approach the bathroom, you won't be so motivated to raid the fridge.

The day fever will fall to the wayside on day 2, but the next four nights will be plagued with sleepless, jittery cold sweats that continue to trim your waistline. By the time the malady has moved into your chest and cold -- making you so unpleasant to talk to or be near that no one will ask you to go out to a caloric lunch -- you'll have lost five pounds, and will be on the way to be losing many more.

That is if you're still alive. If there are any takers, I will sell you my used Kleenexes at a dollar apiece.

Thursday, April 08, 2010

Rainbow Cuddlefluff Finds A Friend

It was a bright, peaceful day at Doily Meadows, a sweet-smelling, happy corner of Cloud Cove, nestled in the foothills of the Sugardove Mountains. Cloud Cove was home to a society of cheerful koala bears, who all loved one another very much. Rainbow Cuddlefluff, the nicest and cutest of all the koalas of Cloud Cove, scribbled in her koala diary before she went out to handle the days errands, which included sliding down grassy embankments, frolicking with butterflies and flying kites in the cool, refreshing Joyfun Breeze, a tradewind that made Cloud Cove even nicer and friendlier than it would have otherwise been.

“Dear Koala Diary,” Rainbow wrote, “Today will be another beautiful, fantastic adventure for me, Rainbow Cuddlefluff. I hope I’ll make new friends and enjoy life to the fullest, as I always do. Yesterday Pumpernickel and I agreed to meet over by the Lake Sunshine after my errands, and I’m ever so excited!”

Pumpernickel, the girl koala who lived next door, was Rainbow’s very best friend. They had liked one another as long as they could remember. Going back to the time they were puffy-eyed, furrball koala toddlers, they would often fall asleep on one another’s shoulders. Of all the love, acceptance and friendship in all of Cloud Cove, nothing came close to the mutual adoration between Pumpernickel and Rainbow Cuddlefluff.

With thoughts of her friend Pumpernickel on her mind, Rainbow went through her day as usual. She squeaked with delight as she slid down the grass, and clapped happily when two butterflies she knew well landed on her shoulders.

“Flowfun and Sonnet!” Rainbow exclaimed, addressing the butterflies by name. “How are you two doing today?”

“I’m afraid this is not a social visit,” said Flowfun, perched on Rainbow’s left shoulder. He did not appear as ebullient as usual. His colorful wings sagged, and he spoke with furrowed antennae. “Pumpernickel has gone missing!”

Perturbed, Rainbow turned her attention to Sonnet, who sat on her right shoulder with a look of sadness to match that of Flowfun.

“Sonnet, this is terrible news! I had planned on meeting Pumpernickel at Lake
Sunshine this afternoon!”

“Aye, me lass,” said Sonnet, who for some reason no one quite knew spoke like a sea captain. “Ye wench has bo’ a mite o’ trouble. I fear ‘tis Davey Jones’ locker poor t’which Pumpernickel has found her way.”

“D- d- d- do you mean she might be hurt?” Rainbow inquired.

Without a word, Flowfun and Sonnet took to the skies, filling the air with their kaleidoscopic glory. Discouraged that her butterfly friends would be of little help in finding the whereabouts of Pumpernickel, Rainbow Cuddlefluff dropped to her knees in prayer.

“Oh, Prata,” she sayed, bowing in reverence to the fictional idol the koala worshipped. “Please oh please bring Pumpernickel back safely!”

Up in koala heaven, Prata heard Rainbow’s wishes. He looked upon her soul and found that since she was a good koala, who was kind and gentle, he would break his usual routine and answer her prayer directly. Prata appeared to Rainbow from behind a cloud of smoke.

“Hello, youngling” Prata bellowed as Rainbow cowered behind a few overgrown blades of grass in the field.

“Is that you, Prata?” Rainbow asked. “I, uh…”

“Silence, inferior!” Prata bellowed, pinning Rainbow to the ground with his
psychokinetic powers. “Tis I, Prata, lord of all koala, doer of all things. I am aware of that which you ask. I can return this friend of yours to you, but first you must perform a task which I command.”

Rainbow brushed away the tall grass blades to look her master directly in the eye. It was an honor for Prata to address one of his koala minions face to face, and she was overcome with joy and happiness. Not only did she get to speak to her idol, he had told her he would bring back Pumpernickel.

“Yes, Prata,” Rainbow said, “I will do whatever you like. What shall I do? Sacrifice a bumblebee hive? Lay paws upon your highest throne in the Temple of Reverence?”
Prata replied with anger. “CHILDISH NONSENSE!!” he declared. “I will not tolerate such superstitious insolence, youngling. Here is what is to come. You will perform oral sex upon my golden scepter,” – Prata, being a pompous, self-referential idol, referred to his sex organ as the “golden scepter” – “and then if you please me I shall reunite you with your friend.”

Rainbow wasted no time in fulfilling Prata’s request, for nothing was too much to ask when Pumpernickel’s safety was on the line. She went to work on Prata, servicing Prata’s smokey golden scepter so feveredly that she nearly passed out. After 20 minutes or so, Prata tapped Rainbow Cuddlefluff atop her little head, signifying that he was satisfied.

Prata raised his left hand and in a shower of light, Pumpernickel appeared before Rainbow. She ran over to her friend and they hugged and rubbed noses with elation.

“HAHAHAHAHA,” Prata chuckled. “Rainbow Cuddlefluff, I have both tricked you and proven you a whore. I am beholden by the covenant of the koala, which binds me to undo all the evils I bestow on your kind. It was I who made Pumpernickel disappear, and to make her reappear all you needed to have done was recite the covenant chant – Prata, Prata, undo your unsavory deeds!”

Rainbow whispered something into Pumpernickel’s ear, and Rainbow and Pumpernickel chuckled together as Prata spoke. He asked them what was so funny.

“Oh, Prata!” Rainbow chuckled. “I know well my koala scrolls. And I have never claimed not to be a whore.”

Rainbow’s words struck true, for in a land of such love as Cloud Cove, there was a whole lot of sex going on – oral, anal, and other stuff you don’t wanna know about. Rainbow smiled full at Prata, revealing lips infected with koala herpes.

Fear Is Better Than The Backhand

People who hit their kids to discipline them are unimaginative at best. Better to mess with their minds and coax them to behave the way you want them to out of fear, the prime motivator for humankind. "Get over here or I'll spank you" is nowhere near as effective as "Get over here or aliens will trap you and take you away as you sleep."

If you hit a kid, you're only teaching them that brutality solves problems. But if you tell them crazy stories, you're teaching them to be creative and that you can get your way with empty threats. It's a lesson that will serve them well.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Things I Am Incapable Of Doing

I have a pretty big ego, but I do realize my limitations. I know that there are some things I am incapable of, and they are:

-Martial arts - I lack the balance and discipline.

-Breakdancing - No coordination. The same goes for all dancing.

-Orienteering - Even with a GPS I can barely find my way around a grid of streets, and when I'm playing a video game without a flashing indicator that tells me where to go I'm screwed.

-Pretty much anything athletic. There was a time I could hang on the basketball court, but I gave up playing when it became obvious to me my future was not in the NBA. I'm OK at skill games like tennis, racquetball and whatnot -- sports that reward you for being quick enough to pretty much stay in the same spot if you have enough skill.

-Standing for more than a couple minutes. I've got a bad back that requires me not only to sit whenever possible, but to be able to lean back against a surface. If there's not constant pressure on my spine, it starts to ache. I've had it checked out and the doctors can't find anything wrong with it.

-Doing anything with my hands other than typing. I cannot fix, weld, construct, deconstruct, repair, cook or modify anything. Mostly because I have no interest in learning how to do any of those things. If I lived in the days of cavemen or frontiersmen, I would have had no chance of survival.

-Fighting. I don't have enough experience and can hardly ever channel the requisite rage. I haven't lifted weights in more than 10 years. If you are a comparable size to me, you are going to win. So I am going to throw dirt in your face and run. The problem with that is I'm pretty slow, so you'll probably be able to chase me down.

-Shooting. I am terrified of guns and will never own one. So add that to the lack of fighting ability and I've got no chance of withstanding any sort of violent confrontation.

That about wraps it up. After reading all that, you might wonder what it is I can do. The answer is not a whole heck of a lot, but because I'm so aware of what I can't do, I play to my strengths, stay out of situations that exploit my weaknesses and spend a lot of my time sitting and writing, watching movies or playing video games. Luckily for me, I live in a time when it's possible to do that, make enough money to feed a family of four and still feel damn good about yourself. So I win.

Google, You're Sorta Freaking Me Out

Google, I realize you're just trying to be helpful to your bottom line when you suggest I buy Battlestar Galactica the complete series from Half.com when I mention the show to someone in Gmail, but could you at least provide me with the false sense of security that, I don't know, you're NOT snooping on every word I type and trying to interpret my needs via your evil algorithms?

And what's with all the suggestions for "male enhancement?" What makes you so sure I'm not well endowed? Are people sending me coded messages that reveal this fact to you? Maybe you're interpreting all my rejection letters from publishers as sexual denials?

If you're gonna be stalking me, why can't you be more helpful about it? Maybe suggest some clever things to say now and then, or compliment me when I use a particularly witty turn of phrase?

Since you apparently know more about my life and my desires than I do, maybe you could suggest some non material things that could make me happy. Maybe I just need someone to hear me out, Google. A confidant. Someone to play co-op with me in Halo 3 and finally get me past the dune buggy level. You could be that shoulder to cry on. And you can tell me your problems -- maybe you're a little insecure about Bing and we could talk about how you're totally hotter -- and we really could share everything.

Let's start over, Google. I'm Phil, nice to meet you. What can I do for ya?

Monday, April 05, 2010

Sunday, April 04, 2010

Number Luke

My 3-year-old son Luke has taken to naming monuments after himself. While driving up I-10 toward Phoenix, he asked Jessica what Piacho Peak was called. She responded "Picacho Peak." He shot back. "No, I think it's 'Number Luke.'"

He calls the peak "Number Luke" whenever we drive past it now, and I've adapted the term as well. Someday they'll throw out the old name and usher in the new one.

Luke has also named our future dog. For those who don't know, our beloved lab Goose succumbed to bone cancer late last year. Luke has declared that our next dog will be "WorseGoose," since no future dog could possibly equal the excellence of Goose. Luke took it a couple steps further by declaring it wouldn't be acceptable to have just one dog, but we'd need at least three. The other dogs would be "Daddy WorseGoose" and "Mommy WorseGoose." He foresees an entire lineage of dogs with the "WorseGoose" surname.

Jessica laughed it off, but I pretty much will demand that our next dog actually be named WorseGoose. It's impossible to think of a better name.

We passed Number Luke yesterday while discussing the future WorseGoose, and I bragged to Luke that before he was born I climbed Number Luke several times. Unimpressed, he shot back "why?"

I paused for a while, incapable of a coherent response, before babbling something about how it gave me a view that let me see far, far away. Luke didn't buy it, responding with "No, why?"

Friday, April 02, 2010

A Few Words On Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia

It is the greatest show of all time, without anything even close in comparison. It's the only thing I watch with full attention while not doing several other activities at the same time.

It's my church. And Night Man and Day Man are the psalms. Charlie Day is the funniest person to have ever graced the planet and I aspire to be like his character in everything I do.

Just one time in life I want to walk into a room and say "Cat stuck in the wall? Now you're talking my language" and have it apply to a real-world situation.

Also, I need a DickTowel.

Thursday, April 01, 2010

Best April Fools Joke Ever

Came in 1988. I was 9, obsessed with the first sports team I ever loved, the all but unbeatable Arizona Wildcats basketball squad, let by future NBA players Sean Elliott, Steve Kerr, Tom Tolbert and Anthony Cook. The juggernaut had stormed off to a 35-2 record, the No. 1 ranking and the school's first berth in the Final Four.

April Fool's Day fell just before the national semifinal in Kansas City against Oklahoma, and my dad woke me up that day with somber news:

"Kerr and Elliott got arrested for drunk driving, Phil," he said. "They're gonna miss the game."

It was all I could do to keep from falling to my knees and bawling. The tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't even muster a retort. I sat on the edge of my bed as he left the room and stared into nothingness, consumed in the void. The world went from color to black and white. Flowers shriveled up and died. My blood stopped flowing.

After half an hour my dad returned and sprung me back to life by shouting "April Fools!" Color was restored. Tulips blossomed. My blood started flowing once again.

And then the next day Arizona lost to Oklahoma and I was sad, but not nearly as devastated as I was when my dad had punk'd me.

The moral of this story: the best April Fools gags degrade victims into unfathomable despair, like an awful, inescapable nightmare, before releasing them unexpectedly into the bliss of normalcy. Any setbacks they'll face next will seem insignificant in comparison.