Beethoven’s 5th

Monday, June 30th, 2008

… or, more accurately, ours.  Happy 5th Anniversary to the esteemed Insta-Princess, the best wife I’ve ever had. (And the prettiest, too.)

Like Father, Like Son. Sorta.

Monday, June 30th, 2008

My last post indicated my recent seduction into the addictive world of Apple games.  First, it was an innocent, nostalgic game of Oregon Trail.  But then, soon after, I was sucked into the crime-filled world of Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? (Turns out she was hiding along the Oregon Trail.  The bitch died of a snake bite.)  Now I’m stuck playing Fraction Munchers–quite possibly the first Apple IIe/gs game I can remember playing.  For those of you who don’t know the game, it’s exactly like Pac-Man.  Only, you don’t collect any dots, there are no power-ups, you don’t get chased by ghosts, there are fractions (lots of ’em–but don’t get them confused with whole numbers), and you’re not a little, yellow, half-eaten pizza pie.

So, while I’m busy doing that, here’s a couple of photos.  One of me, and the other of Auggy.  People say he looks more like me than he does his Ma, but I think they’re saying that only because we’re both white and we’re both the cutest people, evah.

Next post: The Harrowing World of  Fraction Munchers.

That Murderous Oregon Trail

Thursday, June 26th, 2008

Oh, BOB II, we hardly knew ya:

And this after your brother, BOB III, died in our first attempt to cross a river.  Damn you, Oregon Trail, damn your uncaring ways!

Oh, hey, look, I got into the top ten!

I may have been a little excited.  But I’m proud to say that BOB (me), BOB IV and BOB V made it through in poor health.  Plus, as a carpenter, my points were doubled. (Beat that, Jesus.)

Kaiser Roll

Sunday, June 22nd, 2008

Kaiser, get it? Its etymology traces back to Cæsar (not his entomology, which just bugs people), the greatest of whom was Imperator Caesar Augustus (to his friends, “Bob”; to his enemies, slaves, traitors and to whomever he lost his weekly Scrabble game, “Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap, is that a writ of execution? Seriously? Fine, you get a triple word score on that last one!”). He was also declared a god by the Roman Senate, which is a nice job if you can get it. But there you go: our son, Auggy, is one step closer to his life on top of Mount Olympus.

Because now he’s semi-mobile:

Not Fauna, No Way

Thursday, June 19th, 2008

Does everyone know Flora?  You should.

‘Cause she doodles.

“So what?” you ask.  “I doodle, too.  I doodled just last night after some righteous pizza.”

Yeah, well… see, you cretin, it’s not that type of doodle (that’s a doody).  What Flora does is some hardcore doodling. (Stop your snickering.  It’s not diddling.)  This is the type of doodling best left to the professionals lest someone puts his eye out with a random swipe of a doodle-dilly.  Not only that, but it’s Happy doodling, which puts to shame all the rest of the doodles out there, clearly in the need of some major Paxil.

Here in Skippy Land our doodles are not so happy.  In fact, here’s one I did during a meeting today because I was bored:

It truly shows the lighter side of me, doesn’t it?  Plus, bonus, it was quite a surprise to my boss I was doodling in the first place.  Considering we were the only two people in the meeting at the time and all.

Flora’s doodles beam down to us from a more positive planet, so be sure to check out a much more optimistic blog over at Happy Doodle Land.  (Seriously.  Go right now.)

After Three Months MIA, Feet Are Glad To Be Found

Monday, June 9th, 2008

By SKIPFITZ, Staff Writer

KANSAS CITY – In a surprise development–happening between the hours of 9:00 Sunday evening, and 5:00 Monday morning–Lil’ Auggy Doggy found his feet.

“It’s such a relief,” his feet said. “We thought we’d be lost for his entire life, but he came through for us even though we doubted.”

The Insta-Princess was equally happy. “He was making noises throughout the night, so I knew he was awake. But I had no idea when I walked in that he’d be holding his feet. His feet. There they were. Poof! Like magic.” Like magic, indeed. Although Mr. Doggy has been in possession of his feet for three months, he had been unaware of them the entire time. He’d occasionally curl his toes and look annoyed when SkipFitz tickled his feet, but Mr. Doggy refused to look in their direction, a sure sign of what many leading psychologists call “Not Knowing What The Hell Is Going On”.

“I was terrified,” admitted Mr. Feet. “We saw him, but he didn’t seem to notice us. Did he hate us? Did we smell? I’ve heard we’re supposed to smell, but that bastard, Mr. Nose, wouldn’t share any information. How are we supposed to know if the nasal passages don’t communicate? HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Feet after he calmed down. “I’m just so sensitive.”

When asked for comment, SkipFitz responded with a shrug. “I don’t see what’s so special about finding feet. I never found mine, and here I am.”

The Insta-Princess rolled her eyes. “Yes, but he couldn’t find his own… my, I shouldn’t say that, should I? That’s naughty.”

“Listen,” said Mr. Feet, “We’re just thrilled to have been found. Have you ever seen feet that haven’t been found?” Using a toe, he pointed at SkipFitz’s feet. “They’re cracked and dried and alone. So alone. No one wants feet to be like that, least of all the feet.”

Mr. Doggy was no available to comment as he spit up and went back to sleep, but his feet are confident that a celebration is in the works. “Now that we’re part of the family, I think a party is in order. All the body parts will be invited.”

“Except for that asshole, Mr. Nose.”

Meet the Spartans

Friday, June 6th, 2008

You might make a Faustian bargain for power, for youth, for wealth, for a sweet ride with a million horsepower, leather seats, and enough room in the back to stow away two kids, a dog, and any ancillary animals hanging around your pad.

And you may rule your kingdom with a velvet glove of justice and peace for a thousand years; and your subjects may adore you for your wisdom and mercy; and they may celebrate you for your unattainability tempered by sweet familiarity.

And all this may be threatened by the end as Mephistopheles comes to collect your soul as per your demonic agreement; and there might be one way to save it all, to retain your riches; a guaranteed way to void your deal and eventually find your way to heaven (halo and harp supplied); and a good angel may float in from above, flaming sword in hand as he holds off Mephistopheles to give you time to perform this one task; and they’d fight as the midnight hour draws nearer; and then lo, the angel will say to you, “Sweet Child, now is your chance, take it and save your soul, your kingdom, and indeed, the world.”

And he will point to a comfy recliner in front of a grandiose entertainment center; and he will motion for you to pop in Meet the Spartans and watch it as your final task, your saving grace, your defeat of the devil.

That’s when you R-U-N!

It still wouldn’t be worth it.

“I got a rock.”

Monday, June 2nd, 2008

See that thar, Charlie Brown? That’s my baby pumpkin vine, Mortimer. As implied, he’s new to this world, so let’s all take a moment and make him feel welcome. He’s going to be pumpkins, lots of them, even going so far as to be the pumpkin.

Yes, that’s right. The Great Pumpkin. (Suck it, Linus.)

See, I’ve planted pumpkins three times this year. The first time, I was full of hope; I’d started my new gourd-awful hobby with a vegetable medley in my heart and an extra kick to my step. Unfortunately, a wild pack of dogs (which looked absolutely nothing like the three we own… nothing) trampled both the patch and my hopes. So, a week later, after shedding tears, hair and dignity, The Insta-Princess soothed my emotional wounds and convinced me to try again.

But the pack came back.

Despite my fiendishly clever fencing system of small stakes and nylon string, the dogs actually had the audacity to jump over my makeshift barrier and trample my pumpkins again. I reached for my gun. (I have two… both of which I’ve never fired–much less loaded–and both of which are kept because they’re antiques.) The Insta-Princess stopped me in my rage when she pointed out I was inserting the bullets from the wrong end. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not even the rifle. It looks like a curtain rod.”

Week Three: I plant new seeds. But do I stick with one kind? Oh, no, in a shout-out to my desperation, I planted regular field pumpkins, the namby-pamby French kind (“Kids! It’s just like the pumpkin from Cinderella!”), and the really frickin’ huge kind that can grow to over 500 pounds. See, what you’re supposed to do is to whittle down the growing pumpkin sprouts to three to a hill. Not me, I’m leaving all twenty of them in. They can fight their way to the top, even Mortimer; it’ll teach him to be strong, to not take life for granted, to be the best goddamned pumpkin he can be.

And the dogs, like Linus, can suck it.