…TAT-tat-tat-TAT-TAT-tat-tat-TAT…
[Breaking News: from another strangely irrelevant moment in our newsroom…]
“Who is that behind you? Jesus?” my editor asked, noticing my son’s artwork from several years ago on the wall behind me.
“No, it’s George Lucas,” I replied. “You can raise and lower him with this little tab in the back.”
I demonstrated the Amazing Ascension Action! capability of my son’s art piece. Continue reading … This Just In …
My alarm clock went off the same as it always did back then, coming to life with the morning news — my preference over the annoying, high-pitched alternative of chatter. Instinctively, I swatted the snooze button and bought myself another seven minutes of sleep.
In the years since, I’ve thought a lot about those seven minutes, and how the simple push of a button postponed a bitter reality for just a little longer. When the news came on again, word of the first airliner crashing into the World Trade Center stopped my hand just short of another seven minutes of blissful ignorance — a time span that now seems like an eternity.
Lying there, listening to the details, I regretted not pushing the button one more time.
A hundred more times.
A thousand.
In that same moment, I also understood that the impassive gaze of terrorism could only be averted for so long, and that, eventually, I’d have to meet it — along with the questioning gaze of my daughter. Continue reading Seven more minutes of childhood; a father’s wish for his daughter the morning of 9-11
If you’re reading this, Congratulations! You are part of a selective group of individuals who, like yourself, have met a basic standard for visitors to this blog, which is that you must be irrefutably awake. Around here, Sundays are for Flashbacks. This has nothing to do with tequila, getting older or this morning’s proximity to Saturday night — and everything to do with the combination of all three. In addition, it also has to do with a Flashback Sunday tradition that began almost a year ago… assuming I’m not having a flashback right now. Either way, join me as we dig back into the archives to 2002, back when I thought “blogging” was slang for something inappropriate between loggers…
There are certain things all males must learn before they can become a man. This knowledge is passed from father to son, and includes fundamental life skills such as shaving, car repair, burping the entire alphabet, and making fart sounds with your arm pits.
However, there is a crucial first step along the road to manhood that every male must eventually make alone. In a cruel twist of fate, this usually occurs around age three, when fluid intake is high, and hand-eye coordination is equal to that of a wild chimp.
Our son began taking this important step soon after we discovered we did not actually have a leaky toilet. Unfortunately for my wife, she was on the receiving end of this discovery after walking into the bathroom and startling our “man-in-the-making.” And I’m pretty sure I don’t need to explain what he was making. Suffice it to say, I was immediately informed of the situation. Not in so many words, but in a sudden scream that, in my opinion, really didn’t help things.
What did help is that I kept this opinion to myself. Continue reading First step to becoming a man requires a plunger and a box of Fruit Loops
Football Guy: (Getting tackled) “Oh sure — run the old L-42 play, THAT always works…”
Tennis Girl: “If my skirt gets any shorter, I’ll be playing Olympic volleyball…”
You get the idea.
Just about everyone remembers this folder because, like Al Sharpton’s hair gel, it has remained virtually unchanged since 1964. What has changed, however, is the growing list of items parents must provide throughout the school year. This comes in addition to rudimentary things, such as clothing, snacks and a recent urine sample. The reason is simple: The government is tired of wasteful spending, particularly in the educational system, where a special task force has discovered that schools routinely get bilked into spending thousands of dollars on paper alone.
“And, shockingly, most of this paper has turned out to be blank,” said Education Secretary Arne Duncan. Continue reading Outlook for future of education looks just… Pee Chee
My wife and I have been trying to come up with an explanation for the volume of dirty clothes that accumulates in our laundry basket on a daily basis.
In an attempt to explain this phenomena by utilizing mathematic principles, we went through the laundry, separated the clothes, subtracted how many days since the basket was empty, and then divided it by the number of children in our home — which lead to an important discovery:
We had become trapped in the bathroom after our pile of clothes fell against the door.
While it’s true we have four children between us, according to my calculations they are changing their clothes every 18 minutes. This includes through the night, when they apparently take turns changing EACH OTHER while sleeping in shifts. This would explain how they can have a closet full of clothes at bedtime, then wake up and have nothing to wear. It would also explain why their bed sheets are always untucked and strewn on the floor by morning; they are using the sheets to drag each other’s sleeping bodies back and forth to the closet. Continue reading Apparently, the laws of physics don’t apply to our family’s laundry basket
(Somewhere in the world, it’s already Monday. Ech! But for those reading this, it’s still Sunday! Now, before I start getting appreciative calls and emails, I can’t take all the credit. It probably has as much to do with our position in the hemisphere and rotation of the sun as it does with my power to post Flashback Sunday. Although, yes — it is a compelling coincidence. Regardless of the reason, I’m glad we can share Sunday morning together. Come to think of it, I should go put some pants on. In the meantime, here is this week’s flashback, which comes from a time long before I even had a blog, back when I thought “Freshly Pressed” was a new coffee shop and dry-cleaning chain…)
When my youngest daughter entered middle school, I knew it was only a matter of time before my worst fears were realized and, as a parent, I would have to help her with geography. As many of you know, I suffer from acute directional dysfunction — a disorder many famous historical figures also suffered from, including Christopher Columbus, who discovered America completely by accident while looking for… if memory of sixth-grade history serves me…
A faster trade route to WalMart.
I’m the kind of person who must enter and leave somewhere the same exact way in order to keep from getting lost, even if it means walking backwards out of a public facility, such as the men’s room at Safeco Field. I’ve actually had nightmares about being a contestant on The Amazing Race. In it, I am partnered with my friend David, who spent six years in the Marines, and therefore still refers to distances in terms of “clicks,” which is a unit of measure based on kilometers and the use of a special clicking device. Were I trying to find my way out of enemy territory, this device would be about as useful to me as, say… a Superball. Because of this, my Amazing Race nightmare always starts and ends the same way, with everyone getting the first clue and then excitedly running off in the same direction. Except for me, who excitedly runs in the opposite direction — and off a cliff with my “clicker.” Continue reading Geographically speaking, I have no idea what I’m talking about
As some of you know, in addition to being a humor columnist, I’m also a volunteer firefighter. I don’t write much about that aspect of my life because I don’t encounter many humorous situations when we roll onto a scene. About half of what we do involves MVAs (motor vehicle accidents), from fender benders to multi-car fatals. Because we get a lot of tourists here, most of the situations we encounter don’t involve people we know. But living in a smaller town, you know the possibility exists every time your pager goes off. It just goes with the territory. Continue reading Humor columnist and firefighter; sometimes my two worlds collide
(If you know what today is, raise your right hand. Great! If you know what we do here each Sunday, raise your left hand. Fantastic! Now, with both hands in the air, walk to the medicine cabinet and take your medication — because if you believe I can actually see what you’re doing, there are more important things you need to deal with than reading today’s Flashback Sunday. For the rest of you, it’s time once again to delve into the Flashback archives, back to a time when all comments left by readers started with “I am liking your site very well!”; back when I made the empty promise of a free kitten to every new follower; back to a time when I thought “Freshly Pressed” was website offering the latest weight lifting records…)
I have a basic rule of thumb when it comes to carnival rides: If the person running a ride, such as the Squirrel Cages, keeps a garden hose available for spraying out the seats, I stay away.
That’s because this person’s sole ambition is to make me — and others like me — vomit. I realize this person may be a trained professional who, on a daily basis, makes countless split-second decisions on whether to push the red or green button to stop the ride. And, yes, I realize this individual has nothing but the safety of his passengers in mind when he secures a safety latch by removing his boot and whacking it until his arm gets tired, at which point, being a trained professional, he bolsters the confidence of his nervous riders by hacking up a cheekful of phlegm and shrugging his shoulders before walking off. Continue reading Impress your friends and family! Freak out on a carnival ride
(For the second week in a row, I am utilizing the power of Flashback Sunday to stay ahead of the space-time continuum and avoid actually being late on my post by convincing you, the reader, that Stephen Hawking says my columns are like a black hole, devoid of the confines of time, space and, as he put it, “Any actual content.” So journey with me now back to 2004, back when I thought Freshly Pressed was prison jargon for a white collar criminal who is added to the general population…
And in all sincerity to you Dads out there: Happy Father’s Day.)
As any father will tell you, today is a very special day. That’s because it allows you to see what it would be like if your children came from another planet. On Father’s Day, children are required (And I’m pretty sure this is an actual law) to do things they would otherwise only do if there was some serious chocolate involved.
It is essentially a day similar to how you envisioned each day would be, back before you actually HAD children; back before reality set in, and you came to realize that, although insanity didn’t previously run in your family, there was a good chance it would be starting with you.
For example, on Fathers’ Day, there’s always enough hot water for my shower. That means plenty of time to wash-up, shave, and even get the mirror foggy so that, by squinting really hard, I sort of look like George Clooney in the shower, squinting really hard.
That’s on Fathers’ Day.
On normal days, the hot water lasts just long enough for me to realize that, in the time it takes for me to squint, I’m ALREADY OUT OF HOT WATER. Continue reading I repeat: Your children have not been invaded by aliens — it’s just Father’s Day
Sunday morning I will awaken to the sizzle of bacon and eggs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and the shuffle of approaching feet as I lay in bed quietly thinking to myself:
My God, my wife is leaving me.
Then I’ll remember:
Wait — It’s Father’s Day!
It’s the day when we fathers are revered for our wisdom, patience and, in a few rare instances, our neckwear. For one whole day I’ll be the perfect father since my wife will be handling everything for me. She does this to help me relax and enjoy my special day. The problem is, it’s hard to relax when, by handling everything herself, my wife makes it clear I could be replaced by a dishwasher and a few extra power cords. Continue reading Want to be a better father? Get a bigger grill
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