Lunching with Big Dirty

It's not every day that you can have lunch with a local legend. Unfortunately for me it wasn't planned. I was going to have lunch with an old college friend yesterday. I went to the local Bar-B-Q and reserved a table for two. I waited patiently and watched as patrons filed into booths and waitresses rushed around busily working hard for the money.

It was just then that I caught the eye of none other than Big Dirty! I quickly turned my gaze to avert making eye-contact but it was too late. His long years of scanning bars for hot babes came in handy that day and my knowing look caught his attention. He kicked his head back, (a typical Big Dirty sign for hello) and flipped his Razor phone off as he strode over to my table. The following conversation ensued:

Me: I'm expecting someone.

Big Dirty: No prob, CyberD. I'll keep you company until they arrive.

Me: Well, errrrrr, okay.

Big Dirty: So, have you checked out these waitresses, man? They're totally hot!

Me: Not really, I come for the food.

Big Dirty: Gotcha, (he over-winks at me) the food. So what do you recommend? The chicken BREAST or THIGH!

(He cracks himself up and catches the attention of the waitress)

Waitress: I see your friend arrived, what can I get you gentlemen?

Me: Actually, he's not...

Big Dirty: (whispers to me) watch this...

Big Dirty: (to waitress) Hello there... (ogles her strategically placed name-tag) Mandi. Tell me, how good is your... pulled pork?

Mandi the Waitress: It's the chef's favorite and a very popular menu item.

Big Dirty: I bet it is! (he gives me the over-wink again)

Mandi: ummmmmm (looking at Big Dirty unsure of what to say)

Big Dirty: So tell me, I'm in the mood for some... smoked sausage. How are you at... smoking sausage?

Waitress: That's my personal favorite.

Big Dirty: I love it! You naughty thing!

Me: Dude, the girl is trying to work.

Big Dirty: She can work it all she wants as long as its for me.

Me: I'll have a water. Thanks, Mandi.

Big Dirty: How's your... Rubbed Chub?

Mandi: Don't you mean baked spud?

(Big Dirty is now cracking himself up and his shoulders heave up and down as he attempts to contain his uproarious laughter)

Big Dirty: No!

Me: I can't take this anymore.

Big Dirty: "That's what she said!"

I've never been kicked out of a restaurant before but there is a first time for everything.

The Bunny Challenge

I humbly submit this cute bunny pic as part of the challenge...

Oops!

So I'm kickin' some ass and takin' some names at work all day on Friday. I had been on the phone to prospects, setting appointments, and generally feeling really good about my productive day. It was a good day and I was motivated to stay at my desk over my lunch break and work on a few things on my "honey-do" list. Call the baby-sitter, check on flights for Thanksgiving, pick my nose, etc. etc. I'm flying through my list with the same speed and accuracy I've been doing with my work.

Next Up: Check Delta Flights for Thanksgiving. I've got Delta skymiles that are about to expire next year and since I don't fly Delta anymore, I'm hoping to cash in on a little free-miles before I close the book on Delta all together. The only problem is they don't really fly much out of my local airport so I really need to speak with a representative. A Big problem I have with the internet is that companies don't like to just hand over their customer service number... go figure. I guess they either expect you to figure it out yourself on-line or just go away. Not a problem for me, I do a google search for Airline numbers and find a whole list.

Look right there! It's the Delta Domestic Number! Don't believe me? Try it for yourself.

1-800-221-1212

Just one word of caution. Don't get your 1's and your 2's mixed up. Like say for instance...

1-800-221-2121

I'm warning you! Don't believe me? Try it for yourself.

Me? I'm expecting a call from Information Technology and Human Resources within the week asking for my resignation!

The Birthday Bonanza Bash Buffet - Part 3

We kicked this thing off with a bang on my birthday and we're wrapping it up on Q's birthday so for your reading enjoyment we present to you this Birthday Adventure: The Radio-Phonic Version.

“Pull over! Mango break!”

“What? It’s my damn birthday! I’ll do what I want to!”

“CyberD!”

“Q, show them what you’ve got!”

“Los Policia, Los Policia!”

“How do you like them apples?”

“This must be heaven.”

“Jackpot.”

“It’s our birthday!”

“Wanna fly?”

“No thanks, I’m already soaring!”

“Fair enough,”

“FIESTA!”

“Come On!”

“Dude, they want you to insert one of your US citizen babies inside of the barmaid”.

“With pleasure!”

“You’re so lucky, CyberD!”

“You’re next!”

“My heroes!”

“Get in, boys, we’re going home!”

“Damn! I forgot my Mangos!”

Q's Love Affair with Ernest or The Tijuana Birthday Bonanza - Part 2

Q appeared hesitant at first and I must admit that seeing Q in his “birthday suit” (and me in mine) wasn’t something I would have ever expected to behold in my lifetime. I searched for some semblance of reason as I heard the barmaid’s muffled voice talking to, what I could only assume was a host of sexy senoritas on the other side of the door. As if reading each other’s minds, we blurted out, “It’s our birthday!” at the top of our lungs before ripping off our clothes. Q struggled with his socks as he spun around in a circle attempting to unleash the damn thing from his ankle, while I emptied the last vestiges of the Dos Equis still clutched in my right hand.

I looked over at the naked glistening body of Q and I was thankful that my drunken stooper would not allow me to remember this come tomorrow. Q’s sock still dangled off the end of his foot as he reached his hand out and offered me some of the before mentioned “party dust.”

“Wanna fly?” he asked me. “No thanks,” I responded, “I’m already soaring!” as I lifted my bottle in tribute to Q’s partying ways. “Fair enough,” Q responded before bending over and grabbing his wrinkled up leopard print thong underwear and strapped it onto his head like a king’s crown.

It was at that moment that the barmaid returned to the room followed by two very professional looking women. It was unexpected that they both reminded me of my Uncle Carl and unfortunate that they brought a burro into the room with them. They barely had the time to say a single word before Q and I had bolted from the brothel. The faint sound of their celebratory mantra, “FIESTA!” still lingered in my ears.

*******************************************************

We ran as fast as humanly possible to our rental car. CyberD tried to slide across the hood ala Dukes of Hazzard but his sweaty skin stuck to it the moment contact was made. There was no time for me to laugh, though I wanted to really hard. CyberD gathered himself and continued to his side of the car. CyberD turned the key but nothing happened. “Come On!” I screamed. He kept trying but nothing was happening.

By this time the gaggle of people had gathered around us. The two women and the donkey were there as well as CyberD’s barmaid. They told us to get out of the car immediately. Once we were standing, they yelled for one of us to pleasure the donkey. I was in shock and CyberD was extremely toasted. I leaned over to him and said “dude they want you to insert one of your US citizen babies inside of the barmaid”. CyberD immediately took a step forward and yelled, “With pleasure!”

The enforcement officials pulled out their guns and led CyberD to the donkey. He looked at me frantically. I told him that I might have misunderstood and shrugged my shoulders.

*****************************************************

Either the frosty spirits were getting to me or the local militia was leading me away from the kind-hearted barmaid and over to the flea-infested donkey. I could hear Q yell over the crowd, “You’re so lucky, CyberD!” I began to struggle as I feared the worst, but it was to no avail. “You’re next!” I spewed back at him. This surely would have been the end for both of us but little did we know, Q’s court ordered electronic ankle bracelet went off the minute we crossed the border. I had forgotten about that stint Q spent in the pen and was reminded of the time he got that giant tattoo of Jesus on his back while bunking with a tattoo artist named Leopold.

The sound of the chopper came out of nowhere as a sleek black helicopter emerged over the tree line. Q and I both knew that Airwolf had been decommissioned from the military back in the late 80’s. What we didn’t know was that it had since been employed by the local fuzz for just such an occasion. As the bird touched down, it sent the locals scattering in all directions. Q and I ran towards our salvation with one more surprise. As the cockpit opened it was none other than Jan Michael Vincent and Ernest Borgnine at the helm! “My heroes!” Q screamed like a little school girl.

“Get in, boys,” Ernest barked, “We’re going home!” We both dive into the chopper and strap ourselves in as it takes flight, leaving the forlorn donkey behind. I am exhausted from the entire experience and I slump into my seat with relief. Just as I begin to drift off I hear Q blurt out in frustration.

“Damn! I forgot my Mangos!”

Q's Mango Explosion or CyberD and Q's Birthday Trip to Tijuana!

Q promised me that the border patrol wouldn’t be a problem. If you don’t count the rectal exam I suppose he was telling the truth. They did search the car but luckily we had already taken all those flea infested puppies out of the trunk of the rental and dropped them off at the local Home Depot. They had a half-price sale going on wood-chippers. Nevertheless, my knuckles are white with fear… well, either fear or the lack of blood supply to my extremities from having Q’s head in my lap all the way from Los Angeles down Highway 5. Hearing the mariachi music out the window after crossing the border into Tijuana, Q pops his head up and screams at the top of his lungs, “Pull over! Mango break!”

I jerk the wheel hard and a storm of gravel and dust fly up from the back bumper as we come to a grinding halt next to a string of road-side vendors. An elderly man, weighing in at no more than 90lbs, hobbled over to the passenger side door with a handful of wooden marionettes. Q either didn’t see him or didn’t care. He swung the car door open wide, colliding with the geriatric merchant, sending him flying into a chicken coop. Feathers plumed into the air like a mushroom cloud over Hiroshima. I glare at Q as I get out of the car and walk over to the fruit stand selling 12 mangoes for one dollar. Q looks at me indignantly and says, “What? It’s my damn birthday! I’ll do what I want to!”

**********************************************************

I purchase 24 mangoes and head back the rental car. As I am walking back to the car I noticed that CyberD had hit an old man when he pulled over for fruit. I turn back to let him know what he had done but he is nowhere to be seen. I ask the shop keep where ‘mi amigo’ went and all I got was a blank stare. So I asked him louder. He pointed down the alley way behind his cart of tropical fruit.

I secure my mangoes in the cooler by getting rid of the empty Dos Equis bottles that CyberD had left. I headed down the dark and foul smelling path. Every once in a while I yell out “CyberD!” but I don’t get a response. I turned to look in one of the windows and there he was at the bar. I mosey in – attempt to get CyberD away from the bar, but he yells at me causing a scene – he then directs the bouncer to me. I quietly walk outside and get my ass kicked by three rather large tattooed gentlemen, while CyberD watched and laughed. Have I mentioned that CyberD is an angry drunk? Well, he is and he was enjoying this way too much.

*********************************************************

As I chat up the young barmaid and down another frosty beverage, I laugh at her jokes uproariously even though I don’t understand a word she says. At that very moment I notice that Q is getting his ass kicked by some thugs. I don’t know what he did to deserve it but it must have been something awful. Something tells me these men don’t like Mango. But perhaps they like that special “party dust” that Q was flashing around town in the San Diego strip clubs. I yell, “Q, show them what you’ve got!” He looks at me strangely through blood soaked eyes and he begins to feverishly unbutton his pants.

This only seems to anger them even more as they begin grabbing bar-stools and shatter them into pieces before picking up the wooden legs. I think fast and dive in front of them while flashing a plastic badge that Q got out of his cracker-jack box no more than thirty minutes ago. Luckily I insisted on keeping it because he was going to throw it out the window. I hate litter. I scream over Q’s tears, “Los Policia, Los Policia!” They drop the stick and turn to run but Q is fast and he chucks several full Dos Equis bottles at them. Q nails each one on the back of the head, knocking them out cold. Eat your heart out Nolan Ryan. I yell at Q for being so wasteful but he is on a roll now. He yells, “How do you like them apples?” as he does a victory dance around the bar that includes thrusting his pelvis into the air and performing what can only be described as an x-rated version of the funky chicken.

I suggest we make a run for it and for the first time in our lives Q agrees with me on something. We begin to exit the bar and head for the car but the barmaid cautions us. She points out the window and we see that our rental car has gotten the attention of the border patrol. The barmaid insists on helping us. I guess I made an impression. It looks like The D has still got it when it counts!

*********************************************************

With my limited Spanish speaking/understanding ability the barmaid says that it will be three thousand US dollars for the both of us. CyberD gladly agrees to her fee and follows her out the back door. I am stunned that he would part with that kind of cash so easily, but hey this is ‘Vacation’D. I hurry to catch up so that I don’t get lost again in the maze of alleyways and drunken street people, or as CyberD calls them ‘living urinals’. We come up to a building with a metal door. The woman knocks three times and a metal hatch opens up. The woman says something very quickly and the door opens. She signals for us to come inside, once again I am hesitant but I proceed anyway.

Once inside I notice a vast array of erotic toys and resin molds of men’s and women’s private parts. I look at CyberD and he looks at me. He starts to speak but I stop him, touching my fingers to his lips. I already knew what he was thinking. “This must be heaven.”

The woman leads us to a back room. She locks the door behind us and turns on the light. We were in a hotel like bedroom. I tap CyberD on the shoulder and tell him that I think the barmaid is a prostitute. He looks back at me and slurs, “Jackpot”.

To Be Continued...

Time to knuckle-down!

Back in April I got reassigned. I was working the west coast and had taken my sweet-ass time in building up towards a pretty heavy travel schedule. The reassignment couldn't have been better timed because right around the time Lil' Higgins was born, I got to plant my ass at work and pretend to diligently prep my new region assignment. So now my time has run out. I've got my first trip mid-next week and I'm going to have to get serious.

See you bloggers later...

sometime...

whenever...

just later.

Is there a shrink in the house?

I had an unfortunate dream last night about Lil' Magnum and a school bully. The weird thing... well there are many weird things, but let me start from the top. First off, Lil' Magnum isn't old enough to go to school and has never been the target of a bully to my knowledge.

I think the source of this dream was when Mrs Cyber told me about her outing yesterday with Lil' Magnum. They went to toddler gymnastics and Lil' M was hit in the face with a hula-hoop by accident. She told me this story right before I went to bed so I guess it got me thinking about all the various encounters my children will be forced to have without me there to protect them.

Back to the dream. In this dream Lil' M is in school but he is still only two and half years old. All the kids are running around having a good time and I'm there talking to his teacher about something. I notice Lil' M running by when this big kid that looked about thirteen years old comes up behind him and whacks him on the back with a baseball bat. Lil' M starts to cry and I run to calm him down. The teacher comes to help and I run over and grab the kid. I start chewing him out like nobodies business, and I come as close to threatening the kid within an inch of his life without actually saying anything that would get me thrown in jail. I then ask the kid how old he is and he says,

"I'm four years old."

It is so startling that I wake up. So what the hell was that about? The only time I ever did something remotely similar was when I caught a teenager trying to kick my wife's cat. He nearly crapped his pants after I got finished with him, but that's a story for another time. I have to say, this dream makes me wonder what I am capable of and if I have it in me to just snap if I believed my child's well-being was in danger.

Not a fun dream all the way around.

Taking Care of Business - Part 1

I was on the phone with Dagromm last week and we were talking about work. I shared a little secret of mine that I have been using for years and (like many other occasions) he declared me a genius. He said that it's those type of things that they should be teaching in school and not all the math.

It got me thinking about all the different work-lessons we teach ourselves. The type of stuff that they don't tell you in the classroom. I'd like to humbly submit this little nugget of wisdom as one of a series that I plan to share. Call it a multi-part lesson in how to get ahead while doing nothing.

It's sort of a guide to maximizing your earning power while minimizing any actual work you do for a living. For me it typifies that goal of working to live and not living to work. I like to call this one:

- I love the smell of email in the morning -



As a parent to Lil' Magnum and Lil' Higgins my wife and I are often up in the early hours of the morning. Consequently, I tend to go ahead and leave for work ASAP. Whatever your reason for being at the office at the butt-crack of dawn, it's always important that people know how committed you are to your work. Never mind the fact that from 6:30am to 9:00am I'm catching up on all my favorite TV shows on-line. No, the important issue is that your boss and coworkers know how committed you are to having you ass planted at the office.

Now if you're lucky enough to be a non-except paid employee than you don't have to worry about this, because your time-card will tell the whole story. But if you are a salaried employee than you don't earn the benefits of overtime. It's great when you want to go sneak out for an extra long lunch and see Spider-Man 3, but it sucks when you are either working early or working late.

That brings us to the strategy:

I want to make sure as many people know that I'm working early (or late) so I send out emails. Perhaps it's a response you've been meaning to give a co-worker. Maybe it's an update on a project for your boss. Or even if it is the generic FYI to anyone and everyone, send it now! There's no guarantee, but I think there is a better than even chance people notice what time the email got sent. I know that one can program an email to be sent on delay but be wary of such attempts. You never know when the boss might actually be in the office early and discovers your little ruse. No, the best bet is to send the emails when you are actually in the office. Don't worry about actually working. Surf the net, download some music, or in my case - watch some TV! The best part about it is no commercials!

Friday Challenge Remix

There's no pleasing some people. I got off the phone with Dagromm this weekend and he just couldn't accept the fact that Will Ferrell in full on soccer regalia suited him perfectly!

"How come everyone else got a 'bad-ass' photo and I get Will Ferrell?"

"What's up with Will Ferrell?"

"But why Will Ferrell!?!?"

...and on, and on, and on...

I never heard the end of it. Well it just so happens that I did make a mistake in my Quad photo challenge, because I failed to include the illustrious Pokiman. He may have come late to blog-country, but he is not to be forgotten. Therefore, I've included a great depiction of everyone's favorite B-horror-movie-loving, prom-attending, bookstore-working, blogger.

Pokiman


Oh yeah, and a picture to represent Dagromm's soccer loving ways. Will you please stop calling now, Dags?

Dagromm Remix


But I still like this better...

Really Dagromm

Friday Challenge

This is another great idea from the mind of Gyuss. I don't think I've got the kind of relationship with any other blogger where I would feel comfortable taking a crack at a perceived image... so I'll just roast The Quad!

Here's one possible vantage of how we see each other.

The Q


Gyuss


Dagromm


Me (of course)

You Might Feel A Little Pressure

I did my job. I made my contribution to society. I repopulated the earth with little cyber-tots and now it's time to look towards my own future. A wise man once said that one should never eat steak with cling-wrap around your tongue and I agree with him whole heartedly. But my marriage, my mental-health, and my mutual funds can NOT handle any more cyber-offspring... at least not any that I will acknowledge without DNA testing!

So the time is rapidly approaching where I will make that long slow march to the doctor's office so that he can... disengage the electronic fuel injection... so to speak. We haven't settled on a date yet but it's only a matter of time now. I've made my peace with it. I've consulted others who took the plunge. They didn't claim to have a problem with it. Nevertheless, nothing tightens the sphincter more than the concept of someone assaulting your naughty-bits with a scalpel. You go your whole life avoiding damage to your "commander-in-chief" and now you're expected to just flop it out onto some cold, harsh, linoleum table for some quack doctor to hack it off with a skill saw!!

Holy Christ on a crutch!!! What the hell is wrong with you people? Talk about crushing a man's will to live!!!!

I need a drink.

The Mind of Man

I was chillin' at home last weekend with the wife and kids. After the little ones had been tucked in for a good nights rest this conversation followed:

Mrs Cyber: I'd like to talk to you about what my women's bible study group discussed this week, CyberD.

Me: Sure, sugar. Lay it on me.

Mrs Cyber: Our study leader was reading about the differences between husbands and wives and how men are constantly being stimulated visually. This book said that men have a "visual rolodex" of sexy images playing in their head all day long. Is this true?

*Long Pause*

Me: Could you repeat the question?

Mrs Cyber: It says that men are always picturing an image of a sexy woman in their heads. Perhaps you remember seeing a pretty girl walking down the street or, heard a sexy voice on the radio or admired the nice outfit your administrative assistant wore that week...


Me: Or a favorite hot celebrity from television or film!

Mrs Cyber: Right! Wait a minute...

Me: Never mind that. Why would we have those images playing in our heads?

Mrs Cyber: I don't know I thought you would tell me.

Me: Well, sugar-plum. I can't really speak for other men but I have no idea what your bible study leader is talking about. I mean, how would I get anything done if I was constantly thinking about sexy women all day long?

Mrs Cyber: So you're telling me that you don't have images of pretty girls floating around in your head.

Me: Well, of course we are all bombarded by sexual imagery all day long, be it movies, television, magazine ads, or even the choice of clothes a co-worker wears. But how would I get any work done if I was allowing those images to rattle around in my brain? I mean, what benefit does that serve me? I spend all day pouring over spreadsheets, analyzing data, making calls to prospects, and having very detailed conversations about ongoing projects. I'm not sure I'd be very good at my job if I allowed some woman in a nice skirt to distract me.

Mrs Cyber: Well that's good to hear because I was starting to get really insecure after bible study.

Me: STARTING to get insecure?

Mrs Cyber: What?

Me: Never mind.

Lovingly for Gyuss and Q

I was chatting with Q on the phone the other day and he revealed to me that he has a full length mirror on his bathroom door. This in and of itself is not a problem and I thought little of it. But then Q went on to confess that his biggest regret in life was strategically placing the mirror so that he can view himself in all his glory while doing the most unholy of acts on the crapper. This disturbed me greatly and I did not believe him at first.

Why in the name of all that is sweet and clean on this precious earth would anyone want to watch themselves in that most disgusting state? Q admitted that it was an innocent mistake and one he didn't realize he was making at the time. However there is still that lingering question in my mind as to why he never rectified the situation.

Picture this:

You finish a tasty meal of Beef Wellington and frito-chili-pie and decide that a delicious meal like this isn't complete until you've really made room for it in your lower intestines. You push away from the chair and head down the hall towards the "throne-room." As you prepare for the "slow burn" you grab a copy of the latest Texas Monthly and flip to the classifieds for a little light reading. At first you're engrossed in the delicate writing of Don Gaylord's article on Bluebonnets but inevitably nature demands your undivided attention. Your face turns serious and your toes curl as you grip the towel rack and marshal all you energy towards the singular event that occupies your every thought.

And it's in that moment of clenched anguish that you look up and lock eyes with your own reflection in the most gruesome, jaw-dropping, and horror-filled sight you have ever had the displeasure of seeing your own body performing.

That would quite literally shock the shit out of me. Perhaps that is the real reason why Q has never taken down that offense of a mirror.

*shudder*

Embracing Your Inner "D"

It's been just over a year since this blog was birthed. When I decided to give this a try, I really didn't know anybody doing it, except for my sister. I didn't get any creative input from anyone, because who was I going to ask? Like many new endeavours, you sometimes realize that you could have done something better after the fact. The Wheel In Space is actually a re-imagining of my original blog title so no one can accuse the cyberman of not being open to change. Which brings me to the purpose of today's post.

It has taken some time for me to come to grips with a certain fact. At first I just chuckled and considered it a term of endearment. Later on I tolerated it as a nick-name my closest friends would use to annoy me. I have now come to realize that it has gathered a momentum that no one could have imagined and no mere mortal could turn back the tide even if one wanted to. I have my dear friend Q to thank for it's origin, my long-time friend, Dagromm to thank for its propagation, and my infamous friend Gyuss for piling on the bandwagon in typical fashion. Not to mention the fact that it is (for all intents and purposes) a much better avatar than cyberman.

So it is my sobering pleasure to announce that The Wheel in Space is officially acknowledging the use of my new avatar:

cyberD

I will now take questions from the press. Let's start with the editor of the New York Times. Your question, sir?

Somebody needs to be pistol whipped!

I've had it with the local "meteorologist." As if that title gives them some form of additional credentials. I'm sick and tired of tuning into these talking-heads only to see that their predictions are no more accurate than my uncle predicting the outcome of his high school basketball play-offs. Don't you just love it when the morning weather report tells you that there is a 75% chance of precipitation and when you go outside it's already raining? You want to call up Channel 5 and tell the weatherman to open a damn window because you should raise the percentage to 100!

But this isn't the worst of it. More annoying than the bogus weather report is the overly excited EMERGENCY weather report. It turns my stomach to see these yahoos get up and dance around the news-studio barely being able to contain their glee that some poor community is about to get shellacked with a hurricane or tornado or something. They are so excited that they have a reason to be on the air that they forget that peoples lives are in danger. Please contain your misplaced enthusiasm for five freaking minutes. Oh but wait! It doesn't take five minutes to warn people of these weather conditions. I mean how much time do these idiots need to tell you the weather?

And I'm not talking about the major stuff. If you've got a storm coming that's going to go FUBAR on an area than take all the time you need. I'm talking about these little piss-ant storms that may look spooky but ultimately are less harmful to your car than the local drill team washing your SUV for their next fundraiser to Disney World. I can understand if they have to break into the programming of my favorite show for five minutes. I'm also fine with them plastering tickers and Doppler radar all over the screen for the duration of a storm. I can even forgive the big-markets that must warn small towns and city suburbs more than 100 miles from me, even though the sky is so clear where I live that I can see Jupiter with my naked eye. But it doesn't take half-a-damn-hour! Let me demonstrate...

"People of Smallville, Tinytown, and Suburbacon: Run for cover and stay underground for the next three hours. Now back to your regular scheduled programing."

Did I really need to miss all of my show for that? Sweet Holy Baby Jesus Santa! There should be a law against these self-important dil-wads strutting around the screen for God-knows-how-long! Perhaps bodily harm should definitely be an option.

Whewwww! Okay, I'm done. Back to your regular scheduled programing.

You should be paying ME to drink that!

Most college kids have no money. My senior year apartment wasn't any different. Well, it was slightly different. Because while Braveheart, Urban Cowboy, and I were scraping pennies together to take out our respective girlfriends, Monkeywrench was busy fretting over how he was going to score twenty individual gallon sized containers for his latest school biology project.

You see he had this speck of land outside of town that the local wildlife refuge had agreed to let him use as an "unspoiled" environment so he could collect algae samples or some other crap I don't understand. The only problem was that he was running out of time to finish his project and it required the previous mentioned containers. The world wide web was still just gathering momentum and he had searched the damn thing. He had made numerous phone calls and everything he could find was going to run him upwards of $5 to $10 per container.

That's when his professor offered to take him to Sam's Club and purchase twenty glass-jar gallons of apple juice for $2 a piece. Two dollars a piece? What kind of world do we live in where an empty glass jar is worth more than a full one. So in theory, could I get a job as a jar emptier? Apparently it's worth at least $3 per jar... if not more. That is messed up.

Lil' Higgins and The Big Tuna

It was late last night and we were cleaning up around the house. We had just finished dinner with a co-worker and put the toddler to bed. Mrs. Cyber was cleaning the kitchen and I was walking around the house with a wide awake baby in my arms. Being too tired to watch TV and too bored to sit on my ass, I started doing what I so affectionately call "mental drifting." It was in that moment, as I looked down at the limp sack of baby in my arms, that I came to the distinct realization that my son and Bill Parcells have so much in common.



Case in Point:

1) They both look exactly the same in a t-shirt and shorts.

2) They both are soft and "pudgy."

3) They both cry uncontrollably when they don't get what they want.

4) They both crap their pants whenever they feel like it.

5) They both have a solid mastery of a 3-4 defense.

6) They both smell better with baby-powder.

7) They both require 24-hour attention or else they may choke on small toys.

Phoning It In!

I'm not big into reality TV. I've dabbled in most shows like American Idol, Survivor, and even The Apprentice. but nothing has really stuck. My desire to call into shows and vote on contestants is even more minuscule. Enter: Dancing with the Stars. It's been four seasons in and I'm still completely hooked. Of course I watch it for the choreography, costumes, and competition! And for the first time ever, I've actually contemplated the "call in!"

That's right. I'm actually thinking about picking up the phone and wasting seconds of my precious time dialing a number so that my vote can affect the outcome of some meaningless TV show. Or is it meaningless? I mean it isn't really fair that one of my favorite dancers got saddled with a bad celebrity. She doesn't deserve to be kicked off just yet. I think the people of America still want to see a little more of Edyta before it's all over. But what if she gets voted off?

Perhaps there really IS something I can do to help. Oh no! But what about this other one. I'd hate to see them get kicked off. Perhaps I should place my vote here! Too many dancers and too little time! What to do... what to do. I think nobody should get kicked off and everyone should receive a ribbon of participation! How does that sound? Hooray for spray on tan!

Musings from our Nation's Capital

An old college roommate got married last weekend and I made the trek for the wedding. It was great seeing all the old crew and it was also interesting to see another one of my "question-mark" friends turn out to be heterosexual. Two down, one to go. You know which one you are, Eagle Scout! Here are a few thoughts from my trip.

- Northern Speak -

Boy you people north of the Mason-Dixon line sure do talk fast. Eagle Scout, Dental, and I took the train from BWI to downtown D.C. and I'm surprised we made it, having to follow directions from locals was excruciating. You would have thought we spoke a different language.

- Old Ebbitt Grill -


This is the third time in four trips to D.C. (over the course of the last decade) that I have been to this famous bar and grill. All I have to say is Big F-ing Deal! What is it about famous restaurants and bars? It's food and booze, people! Perhaps it's good food and booze but it isn't really awe inspiring and it is definitely over priced.

- Reception Music -

Am I so old now that I consider The Jackson 5, Abba, and The Village People as good ol' fashioned wedding music? This DJ must be very "hip" because I sware, every damn song he played (that I didn't recognize and therefore hated) was from the Top 40. And is it just me or is there always some spaced-out gradma dancing to the dirty little hits of the modern era. You just know she has no idea what is going on.

- Some Dumb-Ass -


Who in the Federal Government decided it was a good idea to close the Smithsonian and 5:30pm? I understand that it's free admittance, so you aren't going to make any more money by keeping your doors open, but seriously... I was there for two days and didn't have time but to race through the Air and Space Museum. And I do mean race. We left the reception so fast, Gyuss and I were still buzzing on free booze, although it did make The Spirit of St. Louis far more appealing!

- Good Meat -


I can safely say that I had the best hamburger in D.C. at this little restaurant/bar that Gyuss loves to frequent. It also happened to be a favorite hang-out for leather-clad police officers, Vegas showgirls, and metro-sexuals. Oh... wait... Is that a sketch of a cowboy wearing ass-less chaps? And that looks like a painting of Mount Rushmore but instead of those distinguished presidents it was a version with Madonna, Cher, Bet, and Barbara. I think I just had my first gay-bar experience and I must admit it was really good meat.

- D.C. Drivers -

They suck.

A Pirate's Life for Me!

Q put me on to this little tid-bit.

My pirate name is:

Iron Davy Roberts

A pirate's life isn't easy; it takes a tough person. That's okay with you, though, since you're a tough person. Two things complete your pirate persona: style and swagger. Maybe a little too much swagger sometimes -- but who really cares? Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

300's got nothing on the M.O.B.

From the Cyber-Files comes another fantastical tale of wonder, magic, and testosterone fueled antics way back from those old college days. Please insert massive amounts of yelling, cursing, and grunting when directed.

It had been nigh on a year since the men of 3rd Floor North had taken their little game of back-road dirt racing and turned it into a participative event so large that it could have qualified for college funding. Who would have thought that the simple combination of a car, a driver, a navigator, and a Texas road map could catch on like wild-fire? Of course there would always be a few rule breakers, but it was the honor system, and that meant you could go from point A to Z any way you wanted... you just had to keep to the dirt roads and the first one to the abandoned back-woods cemetery wins!

There wasn't a better team in the business than Eagle Scout behind the wheel and myself behind the map. Our first place ribbons were so copious that they could have wall-papered Donald Trump's penthouse. One might think we were an unbeatable team, but like many illustrious teams, a woman got in the way. That's when things got out of control. The future Mrs. Cyber an I were spending more time out and that meant the boys of 3rd Floor lost cyberman as their voice of reason. It ended one terrible night when Eagle Scout drove his suburban into a Sycamore tree and Gyuss landed his Landcruiser so deep in a muddy creek that his back axle was enveloped in the thick, heavy, North Texas clay.

It wasn't until the next day that I heard the news and that there was to be a journey out to retrieve said Landcruiser. It was an illustrious crew of eight men and a not so impressive Jeep. The owner of the Jeep truly believed his vehicle would be victorious against the entrenched behemoth, but it only proved to spin helplessly out of control on the slick grass along the bank. But the mob of men, thigh deep in muck, with shoulders thrust against the Landcruiser's steel bumper was another story.

From spinning tire to freedom, the entire process may have only taken a few minutes. However, as one member of the elbow grease behind the SUV, it felt more like an hour. I remember throwing all of my weight against the giant beast and feeling as if we were nothing more than an ocean wave crashing against an immovable cliff-face (insert sound effects). But over time, even the force of water can change the shape or rock. The second attempt yielded more of the same as mud and water splashed high into the air, covering everyone from head to toe in muck (insert sound effect). After the third attempt all appeared lost! Perhaps poor Gyuss would be forced to break the bank and spend his hard earned pennies on an industrial sized tow-truck. There was perhaps the hint (from one of us) that we give up the game, but a rallying cry was issued and we re-doubled our efforts! Later on Eagle Scout would say that he thought he felt the monster move during that fourth attempt but he feared it was only his mind playing tricks on him... that was until he heard the loudest cry of the F-word he had ever heard utter from my own lips. It was then that he knew we had achieved the impossible (insert sound effect). I remember that moment as if it were just yesterday as the strength of those eight men turned resolute mass into moving force. One could hear the suction of mire let loose from the axle as well as many a foot from their shoes as we pushed (not pulled) that son of a bitch from the creek bottom.

Cries of victory could be heard throughout the land and Gyuss emerged from the cabin with arms out-stretched, celebrating his freedom, and rejoicing in a moment that would live in infamy! If a football had been nearby a game of rugby would have surely broken out!

A Shout Out to my Blog-Brother!

In the spirit of friendship and celebration I would like to formally welcome Pokiman to Blog-Country. I've known Pokiman for nearly fifteen years. He's gone by many names during that time, one of my favorites being Thrud. I've spent the last year encouraging Poki to join his fellow brethren by starting his own blog and I am happy to say you can now check out his magnificent work at Tonight we have a REALLY BIG SHOW. In honor of this momentous occasion I would like to share some of my favorite Poki stories from our past.

The Origin Story:

It was 1992 and Gyuss and I were becoming notorious for how bad-ass were were as college freshmen. The line of friendship hopefuls went around the block two and a half times and we were swamped with resumes. Nothing impressed us and we wondered if there would ever come a day when someone else on campus could measure up to our greatness. It was a stormy Thursday night and all the wannabes had retired to their respective dorm rooms for the night. That is when there came a knock at our door. Poki stood out in the darkness of the hallway with pillow in hand and asked if he could crash in our room because it was raining in his room. G thought it was a scam to gain access to the inner-sanctum. I, on the other hand, felt that this was a desperate soul in trouble. Upon further inspection the roof had caved in and water was indeed pouring down into Poki's dorm room. As benevolent men we welcomed him in


The Pants Come Off:

Poki informs me that he can no longer spend any time in his room while his roommate is present since he accidentally caught his roommate abusing his privates while looking at a Victoria's Secret catalog. Apparently the roommate attempted to pretend to be at his desk typing a paper but his bare-ass but-cheeks shining through the crack in the chair gave him away. Later that week Gyuss and I rented The Deer Hunter and took it to Poki's room since he was the only one on the floor with a TV and VCR. With the lights down low we enjoyed the dark meanderings of Robert De Niro and Christopher Walken. After the movie, a fellow dorm dweller (we'll call him Eagle Scout) turned on the overhead lights and we noticed that Poki's pants were nowhere to be found. Gyuss screamed like a little girl and I asked Poki what the hell was going on. He said that he just feels more comfortable without the constriction of pants while watching movies. Eagle asked if Poki's roommate was "rubbing off" on him. I kindly asked Eagle to never use the words "rubbing" and "off" in this context ever again.


Just Add Water:

Poki and I decided to make a quick road-trip from our small college town into the big city. It was approximately 60 miles one way. Poki asked if I wanted to drive. For whatever reason I said no and we hopped into his little Nissan Sentra. I noticed two large one-gallon jugs of water and a dirty rag in his back seat but I failed to ask why he had them. After our jaunt into the metroplex we were making the trek back up to college when I noticed steam rising from underneath the hood of his vehicle. We were still a good twenty miles from campus and I began to worry. I suggested we pull over but Poki only shrugged and mumbled something about being good for another five miles. Eventually the smoke was more than even he could handle and we took the next available exit. We pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motel and he hopped out of his car while grabbing one of the gallon jugs. I asked him what the hell was going on and he told me not to worry as it happens all the time when one's car has no freon due to a giant hole in the radiator. With dirty rag in hand Poki screws off his water cap and boiling steam spews in all directions. He then dumps the entire jug into his water tank (half of which probably burned off in the pouring) and we continue back to campus. I suggested that next time someone asks if he wants to drive he says no.

Three is Company:

Following our years in school I would often check in with my dear friend and we would catch up on all our shenanigans including talk of women. I'll leave the rest to your imagination and Poki's discretion. Ask him about it sometime.

The Wheel's Big B-Day!

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Wheel! Haaaappyyyyy Birrrrrrrthdayyyyy tooooooo Youuuuuuuuuuuu!

It's officially been one full year since I started my blog and on this special occasion I invite all my loyal readers to join me in celebration! Like any other one year old, The Wheel is officially gone from crawling to walking, although we're still not out of diapers yet. We are, however working towards a doctorate in ornithology.

Anyway, please feel free to grab a piece of cake and a party hat. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be bringing out "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" in just a bit. In the meantime, feel free to flip through the picture albums and oooohhh and ahhhh over how cute this blog was as a baby.

Steppin' Out with My Baby!

In the last two weeks I've thought of probably twenty different things that I really wanted to blog about. All of them now escape me save the last... I really need to keep a pocket-note-pad handy.

I've been at home all week this week, mainly playing with my toddler, while my wife tends to baby-duty. This morning I told my wife I would be going into work today. After having my shower and getting my suit on she asked if I could help her by holding the baby while she took a quick shower. My toddler was still asleep and my wife would definitely have her hands full after he woke up, so I decided to hold Lil' Higgins while she showered (to ensured that the chaos of waking children could wait until she was fresh and ready to go).

BIG MISTAKE. No more than five minutes into Diane Sawyer's latest expose on motel criminals did Lil' Higgins piss all over my shirt, tie, and slacks. "Ding-Dong!" I cursed in my newly acquired G-rated languate that I use at home. I was irritated. But it's not his fault. He's just a baby. It's not my fault, I certainly didn't want to wear tee-tee-clothes. It's not my older son's fault... he is still asleep. That rules out everyone but the wife. It must be her fault, right? She didn't see it that way.

Long story-short... I had to add a pair of pants to the drop off at the dry-cleaners.

Did you enjoy those daily Blog-Posts? I hope you did! I hope you did very much!

...Because The Wheel will be back to weekly postings (at best). Why a shift in time spent in blog-country, you may ask? Because I am proud to announce the arrival of my second son. My closest friends have already dubbed him Lil' Higgins, so for lack of a better idea and energy to come up with one we'll go with that.

We went to the hospital early morning on March 1st with great anticipation. Eight hours later Lil' Higgins was celebrating his zero birthday! I am happy to say that he is healthy, happy, and already quite the ladies-man as he got the attention of every nurse on the floor. I must admit that we had a great experience with our doctor and the hospital. They really know how to do it up right on the second floor of Plano Medical Center. If you have to be in a hospital I highly recommend the labor and delivery/neonatal/postpartum unit. Everyone is all smiles and giggles.

"Oh what a cute baby!"

"Congratulations, he's precious!"

...et cetera et cetera, infinitum, ad nauseam...

I took Mrs. Cyber and Lil' Higgins home on Saturday. Here is a picture of me (the proud daddy) strolling around with "said-baby."

Since then I have spent the last few days at home helping around the house and mainly taking care of my highly rambunctious 2 year old son, Lil' Magnum (also affectionately named by those same close friends).

But today is my first day back in the office. I came in extra early so I could leave a little early tomorrow and get a jump-start on my sleepless weekend with the family. I'm glad I came in early too because there are bunches of email and voice-mail stacked up in my in-box. Most importantly I needed to update my blog. I do hope it's bloggity enough for you because my new bundle of joy is already kicking my ass in the sleep department and it's going to take almost everything in the tank to do my stinking job for the next few months. That means a little less time on the world-wide-web.

Anywho- please refer all interview requests to the blogment section of this post and I'll check my schedule for the next availability.

Happy Birthday, Son!

Just hold it...

Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. That's all I keep hearing from my wife, my doctor, my mother... you name it. And it's true. Often times when I feel run-down, lethargic, or just have a simple head-ache, a few bottles of water is all it takes to get me back on the right side of feeling swell. But there is a dark side to hydration. A wicked side with a nasty sense of humor.

How many of you in blog-country have been right on time for a meeting at work, with no wiggle room for a bathroom break? You can already feel it coming on and you hope that the meeting, scheduled for an hour is only going to go thirty minutes because that may be all your bladder can handle. So you sit in the meeting. You take notes, you participate, you listen and you watch as the momentum of said meeting goes well beyond your window of opportunity. Now you're holding on for dear life. You'd prefer not to get up and leave the room, drawing attention to the fact that you are gong to pee-pee and you think that maybe the meeting could wrap up in just a few minutes. The time ticks away and you are no longer able to concentrate on the content of the meeting because the pain in your bladder is blocking out all other sensation.

A few minutes earlier you were chiming in with great ideas and interesting observations. Now every person in the room that says, "Have we discussed this option yet?" becomes your mortal enemy and you curse the day that they were born because you now know that it would one day lead to them setting in this f-ing meeting and forcing you to risk pissing your pants!

You begin to squirm ever so slightly because it is all you can do to hold back the tide of urine that is now dangerously close to spilling forth! You think to yourself, I can't wait any longer! I must excuse myself from the meeting. But you're paranoid now. Worried that someone may have noticed your change in demeanor long ago and will know that for the last thirty minutes you've been thinking of nothing but unzipping your pants!

But then the meeting ends! Thank the Gods! relief at last. You stand up and prepare to file out the door of the conference room. You're home free! The toilet is just a few yards away and you can almost feel that sweet relief. It's the most precious thing in the world at this point and you would trade away your first born child just for the chance to let it fly!

You step one foot out of the conference room and in that very moment your boss stops you and says, "Say, cyberman. Have a seat for a few minutes while I go over this other project with you."

Normally you'd have the right words to explain your situation. You'd say something like, "I'm sorry, boss. I need to run to the restroom really quickly and I'll be right back." Unfortunately all sanity has left you at this point and you only manage to blurt out, "Pampers" because that's what you'll need if you're not careful.

Bed Time Guilt

My wife and I have really been putting the screws down on bed time with our two year old. He still cries (or whines) every night when we tell him it is bed-time. One small success has been that while he is crying he is (of his own accord) walking back to his bedroom on his own.

We've been playing hard ball for two reasons. 1) We are prepping for the arrival of this baby and we'd like at least one child to have a regular sleep cycle. 2) We actually enjoy the quality time together weather that is watching a TV-show, doing dishes, or just catching up with each other as a couple.

Once back in the bedroom we still have to read stories, do a few puzzles, and generally corral his but into bed. But once we say "night-night" it's lights out and that's it. He has his good days and bad days. The bad ones usually consist of 2-3 minutes of crying after we leave the room. The good ones, including the last few nights, have been him repeating the phrase "night-night" back to us.

Last night we wrapped things up and turned off the light. His response to me was "night-night, Daddy. Have fun."

I found that his innocent statement that I "have fun" struck in me a pang of guilt that still lingers this morning... because that was exactly what I was anticipating doing after I left his room. I was going to go out and "have fun"... whatever that meant. What must he think we do after he goes to bed? Break out the cake and ice-cream? Call up Curious George and Clifford the Big Red Dog so they can all come over and watch Disney movies until sun-up? What's next? When I drop him off at school in a few years will he say things like, "Don't worry about me dad. I'm sure I can dodge the school bully long enough to get my daily spanking from my evil teacher before being shuffled off to the cafeteria to eat gruel that isn't nearly as delicious as the food we eat at home." I think my next cyber-implant is going to replace my tender-heart with something that more resembles cast-iron.

What was I thinking?

In preparation for the upcoming cyber-tot, Mrs. Cyber and I were going through old photos and attempting to organize, as new babies always bring with it a flood of pictures. We got sidetracked going through some old albums. My goodness how fads change over time. Do you remember ankle rolled blue-jeans? Here's a picture of some of my favorite "looks" from the past!



My god, what was I thinking doing my hair like that. Oh well, it was the eighties! And look at those pants. How embarrassing! But I know you guys still love me, if you can't share the soft underbelly of your past with blog-country, who can you share with?

Drew is Back...

...with a special editorial. If you like the ramblings of the burger-loving gunslinger that was wrongfully jerked from his starting position, then check out one of his recent articles. He talks about the retirement of Bill Parcels.

Once more unto the breach!

There's a reason that a vast majority of children are born more than two years apart from each other in a single family. It's because it takes that long for parents to forget all the crappy parts of raising an infant. Don't get me wrong, I love my son and there isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't fill my spirit with a joy that lacks compare, but he was one difficult baby!

Spit-up, diapers, colic, and sleepless nights are just some of the things one expects as they face parenting for the first time. It's only after you've experienced the joys of caring for a baby that you become fully aware of the highest highs and the lowest lows of that physical, mental, and emotional roller-coaster.

And now upon the eve of the birth of my second son my wife and I are reminded of (not the specific challenges because time has wiped those from our memory but) the battle of bringing a new life into the world. We are steeling our resolve, marshaling our resources, tapping into our reserves, and mustering the militia. Lil' Higgins will soon be on his way.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

Caught in Bermuda

In case blog-country hasn't figured it out: Dagromm, Q, and I live in and around the same metro-area and we have all been friends for many years now. Dagromm and I knew each other first but after he moved further away, the Q and I began hanging out with even more frequency. Now we all live about one hour's drive distance from each other and our friendships have become largely phone conversations with the occasional lunch get-together.

But an unsettling trend is occurring in this sacred triangle of love. The last few days I have noticed that when I place my daily call into either one of these dear friends their phones always go to voice mail. I then call the other and that phone is goes to voice mail. When I happen to be talking to one, they always have to jump off the phone to take another call and then when I call the other they aren't available to visit. It turns out that the Q and Dagromm are visiting with greater frequency and they have been each ignoring their caller IDs when my call comes through. Of course no one person in the triumvirate is more important than another but as the most important and influential member of the group, I worry for their eternal souls as their friendship drifts away from the moral compass that is me. To make matters worse I have now come to find out that they are planning a weekend tryst together! Of course they both have clumsily invited me to tag along after I unearthed their secret. Can you believe the audacity? I've had it with this love triangle! I'll not play second fiddle to anyone!

My solution: Gyuss, move to our metro-area and become my best friend! Short of that I have recently priced the cost of a stun-gun, a circle-saw, and a trash bag.

Skirting the Edge

If you're a regular reader of this blog then you already know I'm a huge game-geek. I'm not as high-tech as Q and Gyuss but I do love me a good table-top war game when I have time to play. Lately I've really gotten into the Axis and Allies Miniatures game. It's a fast paced, and fun war game with historical routes making it (perhaps) one of the least geeky of war games I have ever played. There are a few problems with the game, one being that a particular unit (namely the SS-Panzergrenadiers) is under priced and overly powerful... I digress.

In graduate school I took a class on starting a business and we were allowed to work on a project of our own design. I chose the Collectible Card Game market (or CCG for short). I had many discussions with fellow game-geek and project partner about which franchises would make good material for a CCG and we debated why certain games haven't already been made. Like why is there no CCG for the Indiana Jones property? One would think it would be a viable franchise to build a collectible card game around. One of our early theories was that perhaps the backdrop of the Nazi's as major characters in the franchise might make the game just a little too politically charged for someone to be willing to touch it.

Fast forward to today and the Axis and Allies Miniatures game. Now Axis and Allies has been around a long time as a board game but the recent development of a collectible miniatures game has brought with it all the trappings of the on-line fandom community including a forums section on the Avalon Hill AAM main page. Now everyone knows that membership in a forum requires a really cool avatar and fans of the AAM have chosen many an interesting avatar to depict their on-line persona. I was recently lurking around the forums and came across one thread that was initially started about a rules question but turned into a debate about one members avatar being a Nazi flag.

Out of the woodwork pop everyone with an opinion from mild-mannered level headed folks to the idiocy of what can only be pimply faced thirteen year olds spouting "free-speech" and "don't deny history!" Vomit! Like a car crash I was riveted and couldn't wait to see how long the moderators would allow this argument to continue. For a game that does involve Nazi Germany Avalon Hill shrewdly created a code of conduct that included no use of Nazi symbols and no political discussions allowed. Seams easy enough to respect. But there is always someone that believes the rules don't apply to them. This one guy whose member handle is "Himmler" and his avatar the swastika, actually felt like he wasn't doing anything wrong. What a jack-ass! I couldn't believe this guy actually thought he was in the right. And everyone that attempted to calmly and gently suggest he change his avatar and handle got flamed like you wouldn't believe! I was stunned. Eventually the moderator stepped in and explained to the group that the political discussion needed to cease and desist and return the thread to a gaming discussion. What followed was a series of posts resulting in quite possibly the funniest Nazi humor I have ever read.



MODERATOR: The political discussion is very definately out of place here, so please avoid that.

MEMBER X: Yikes, how did this just happen. Let's go back to complaining about the game.

MEMBER Y: Yeah! ... uhm ... SS Panzergrenadiers are underpriced!


MEMBER Z: Underpriced and big meanies. Those guys have committed many atrocities in my tackle box.



I have to say to Member Z, you may skirt the edge of socially correct humor but you are one funny son of a bitch!

Happy VD!

I suppose it is customary to wish everyone you know a happy (insert-holiday). I know I always make it a point to wish practicing Christians a Merry Christmas, and Happy Easter. It's always a safe bet with wishing any American a Happy Thanksgiving, and you can't go wrong wishing all mother's a Happy Mother's Day. Speaking of Mother's Day, this brings up an issue for me and I'll lump Valentine's Day in there as well.

What's the point, other than to sell cards, candy, and flowers? I realize that complaining about the consumerism conspiracy behind such holidays isn't a brand-new hot-sports-opinion but I feel the need to bring it up. Aren't these holidays of appreciation just a business model for Hallmark and Godiva to boost profits? As husbands, fathers, sons, and boy-friends, shouldn't we be appreciating our spouses every day of the year? I know I try to express appreciation to my wife as often as possible. Does one really need mother's day to tell your mom you love her?

I'd say my wife falls in the middle when it comes to the broad spectrum of how women feel about Valentine's Day. She's fairly traditional and sentimental so she always likes to see that I've put out a little thought and effort. Of course every man knows this is the most difficult part. I'm lucky in that she doesn't need, expect, or even want me to demonstrate grand financial gestures, and she is almost always willing to postpone the actual celebration of a special day until later in the month if life gets in the way (that even includes birthdays). Nevertheless, there is something about flowers that always makes her happy.

What is it about spending money on something that one will have nothing to show for in three days? I don't get it. I don't suppose I'm genetically designed to understand why it is important. I guess I just need to know that it IS important.

Rock and Roll All Night

What a year of the football. My favorite team recently announced an exciting new minority head coach, my favorite quarterback made it to the Super Bowl and single-handidly won the game and then deservedly was anointed the mantel of MVP, placing him amongst the greats of football-all-time. Move over Uncle Rico, there's a new sheriff in town!

It was happy-fun-time a the cyber-home last night. I had a few family members over for a laid back get-together. Little did we know we would rock the house down! We sent the kid to bed early with no dinner so we could get down to the importance of football ASAP (that stands for As Soon As Possible in case you didn't know).

When the game kicked-off things looked bleak, as the football freak of nature ran one back for a TD (that stands for Touchdown in case you didn't know) in the first 14 seconds of the game. Luckily Manning rifled a TD pass to Reggie Wayne before I had a chance to kick the chair out from under my feet. My wife untied the rope from the rafters and I got down in time to watch D.Rhodes rumble, bumble, and stumble for massive yardage. Luckily Peyton taught him everything he knows.

That's when the party really started to hop! We decided to listen to the game through the surround system so we could take the party to the streets without missing a minute of the action. My neighbor only called the cops once but that wasn't for the noise. I guess some people don't appreciate roman candles rocketing off of their dining room windows.

The dog got painted all red by the end of the game but the party wouldn't stop for another hour. It would have gone all night but we ran out of rubbing alcohol and we were only able to set fire to my front lawn. I had hoped it would start a chain reaction of grass-fires as a tribute to the greatness of Peyton Manning but the local fire-department was such a buzz-kill.

Anyway, I think we can all agree that the most deserving team won the game. Feel free to blogment with your own Super Bowl celebration story!

Love to football!