February 14th. Hearts and candy day (but not real hearts; at least, I was told to stop giving those as gifts). This is the day when bloggers regale you with tales of romance, stories of love, and oaths of devotion to “the most beautiful wife a guy can have” or “the bestest husband, ever”.

Not me. (Especially not the husband bit.)

While I adore the Insta-Princess and couldn’t have hoped for a more gorgeous and brilliant creature to worship, happiness and light don’t always make for the most interesting stories. No, pain is needed. Sadness. Possibly even some torture if it can be worked in. You know, dating.

Most of my friends own up to having at least one dating tale of woe; some of them even go so far as to seemingly attract the troublesome men and women wandering the dark streets of our city. Not me, though; I mean, yes, I’ve had a boring date (she was brunette, stunning, and probably the most unexciting person I had ever met; it was if she looked into the mirror one day and said, “You know, I’m hot. That’s all I need to be.”); I’ve had the worshipful date (she giggled at everything I said–which, while amusing and flattering the first ten minutes, gets old and grows mold quickly after… which isn’t to say we didn’t make out afterward); and I’ve had the date where we almost seemed to despise each other right off the bat. “Ah,” I said. “So this is what marriage is like!” But, I never really had the kind of date I fully regretted.

Until Gossamer.  Oddly enough, it wasn’t our first date that was terrible; in fact, I’d say that the first handful of dates were pretty good. Gossamer, the woman with a shock of long, red, red hair, was nice, polite, and shared quite a few of the same interests I had. She even taught 8th Grade English, which meant my crush on her was instant. Teachers are awesome, even when they’re nuttier than Mr. Peanut’s poop. Plus, I got to make out with a teacher–my inner child was both awe-struck and disgusted at the same time.

It wasn’t until after we began The Relationship that I found out how truly crazy she was. Gossamer had, the previous year, divorced her husband. Her ex, a guy called ‘Jeff’, was a college sweetheart who had a huge brain problem. That is, his brain wasn’t huge, but the problem he had with it sure was. Gossamer, to her credit, stood by him through it all, even making sure he married her when he could barely muster enough energy to stand, much less mutter his vows through slurring speech and drooping eye. (Seriously. She made him wear an eye patch to cover it up. The wedding photos were priceless.) “We made a promise to God,” she told me.

Huh. I guess God likes pirate weddings.

Jeff’s brain problem eventually worked itself out. Either the swelling went down (I guess he had a big brain, after all), something was sliced, or they sent him to the Wizard, I dunno. But, he healed and they moved to Kansas City. Which is the place he met a cute blond by the name of Shelly, and cheated on Gossamer with her. That, my friends, is the first hint to which I should have paid attention; I mean, if Jeff jumped the Good Ship Coitus as quickly as he could despite the love, attention, and the nursing-back-to-health Gossamer heaped on him, there must have been a giant, flashing neon sign of “No, No! Go Back!” that he saw above her head and I didn’t.

And, boy, I didn’t.

Gossamer had an endless bag of problems (like Mary Poppins, except nothing really cool ever made its way out of Gossamer’s bag), and were they ever the popular ones: she drank too much and became nonsensical and vicious; her father cheated on her mom and then failed to pay enough attention to her after he hooked up with a new family; she was a preacher’s kid two times over, and even had a few uncles who were preachers and a step-father who was studying to become one; she struggled (struggled!) for her kids at work, but never felt as if anyone gave a damn; she had a whole slew of gastrointestinal medical worries (okay, that’s not really a popular problem to have); and whenever she got gussied up, her eyes were weighted down with so much make-up that, if she blinked, it took a half-hour and a crowbar to get her to see again.

Okay, that last one was less a problem for her and more a complaint on my part. But then, I had to keep on buying the crowbars.

One Christmas season, right after some major stomach surgery for her, I drove Gossamer to and all over Oklahoma so that she could spend the holiday season with her divided family. Actually, I was happy to help out; I liked to travel and I knew she wouldn’t have been able to make it without a chauffeur. Unfortunately, she must have misunderstood what it meant to be an atheist (me, that is), because I was hollered at for not singing religious songs with her Father-The-Preacher-Who-Ignored-Her-And-Cheated-On-Her-Mother-And-Blah-Blah-Blah and his family. “But, I’m atheist,” I explained to her.

Didn’t matter, she insisted. I know the lyrics, it’s a family activity, and I should play along.

“But, I don’t know the lyrics. I was Catholic. We didn’t do so well with the Protestant songs.”

Now I was being stubborn, she told me. Everyone knew the lyrics to these songs.

“Except Catholics,” I pointed out.

Nope. Even them.

So, I lost that battle. Disarmed by her craziness and a lack of knowledge concerning Protestant song lyrics , I failed to impress her father, a man who pulled her aside to advise her on how I lacked “a spiritual side”.

“But, I’m atheist,” I tried explaining again. Ah, well.

Still, Gossamer was cute, the red hair was a plus, and I had nothing else better to do, so I stuck with her. Right up until the point she accused me of getting into her e-mail. Man, she ranted and raved for days about how I had betrayed her, and how her ex-husband had betrayed her, so maybe betrayal wasn’t a good thing. It didn’t matter that I had no idea what she was talking about; it didn’t matter she couldn’t explain how I did it or even how I got her password; all that mattered was that she couldn’t trust me and was I ever rotten. She went on for days while I remained baffled, and she continued on until she slipped up by admitting she had been reading MY e-mail the entire time. (This, I knew how she accomplished. I had left a copy of my e-mail program on her personal computer, locked, but once I was careless and left it unlocked and open to sneaky eyes.)

So, I dumped her. And I came to the conclusion that the first date we went on was one of the worst in my life, due solely to the fact that it led to The Relationship and my experiences visiting Gossamer’s own personal insane asylum. I vowed to hold off on dating at that point until I accomplished a few personal goals and until I could devise a way to make sure my next date was not another Gossamer.

That worked for six months until I met the Insta-Princess.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for hot women.

In the past year I’ve been hit with walking pneumonia, stomach flu, and now the regular flu.  Which, by the way, is in its fifth day–when it used to only last a couple days back when I was hale, hardy and not quite 30.

Ma Nature, you blustery old windbag, you’re cheating and you know it.  Two types of flu within a year?  Really?  You’re pissing me off.

Love,

Skippy

It’s funny, now that we’re a month away from polluting our house with Gerber and Pampers, how people are just now creeping and crawling in to alert us with numerous horror stories of having kids. Before, the Insta-Princess and I were pumped full of anecdotes and foretellings of sweetness and light. “You’ll love having a kid,” we were assured. “It’ll change your life for the better.” Now that they know we’re stuck, that there’s no turning back, it’s a different story.

Last night, for instance, we were out at dinner with our friends Peggy and Wayne. Now, I’ve known Peggy since I was, oh, maybe 11 or 12. Back in the days when I had both energy and hair, I was schlepped to a daycare each afternoon after school; Peggy, as luck would have it, was one of the “teachers” (as we, the young, wide-eyed innocents, called them). She and I bonded over our voracious reading habits, and when she left for college, she was kind enough to be my pen pal. So, over the years we’ve been in contact off and on, and I’m happy to say that she married a great guy and ended up having two wonderful children.

Or, so I thought.

We were eating Greek food (me, with my lamb shank and octopus; everyone else munching on treats I don’t recall because, frankly, mine was so good, who cared about the rest of the world?) when we all stumbled into the inevitable conversation about kids. “You’ll love having a kid,” we were assured. “It’ll change your life for the better.” But then, almost immediately after…

The room got colder. I shivered and turned to look at the Insta-Princess, distracted by the chattering of her teeth. “What’s going on with this wacky temp–” I started to say.

“Help us!”

“What was that?” I asked my wife.

“Wasn’t me,” she chattered, rubbing her arms for warmth. “It sounded like it came from across the table.”

“Look!” I cried, pointing to where Peggy and Wayne sat. “They’ve turned into the zombies from Thriller!”

“Nooooooo,” Peggy Zombie moaned. “Not zombies, just parents.”

“Help us!” Wayne Zombie moaned again.

“Was it the lamb?” I asked. “I’m so sorry. Usually it doesn’t zombifiy people. Maybe if we talk to the chef?”

Wayne Zombie started to say something, but his jaw fell off.

“By God! What’s happened to you?”

They looked at one another. “Kids,” they said. (Well, Peggy said it; Wayne kinda signed it, what with his jaw having fallen off and everything.)

“But,” the Insta-Princess sputtered, “sweetness and light! Sweetness and goddamned light! That’s what you’ve been promising us!”

“They’re demons,” Peggy Zombie insisted. “Hellions, minions of Satan–that’s what kids are. You’ve got to help us get away. Can we borrow your car? Our kids won’t recognize it, so we could be in Mexico before Friday…”

I was confused, horrifed, even. This wasn’t in the manual–and certainly not in the pamphlet Babies ‘R’ Us had given us. Nothing about demons or fallen angels was mentioned. And I checked everywhere, even the page about breast pumps. (I might have checked on that page more than necessary, right, but you can never be too sure.) “This is so unexpected,” I said.

“We had to warn you–” Peggy Zombie started to say. And then stopped. Her eyes, wide with fright, narrowed and flashed a quick red glow. “Mother,” she said in a slightly higher, almost childish voice. “What are you doing? Are you trying to escape again?” Peggy Zombie nodded, slowly, in terror. “It won’t work, Mother,” she continued. “Now grab Father and his jaw, and head home. It’s bath time.”

Peggy Zombie helped Wayne Zombie to his feet, and then hooked his jaw back on. “It’s-been-very-very-very-nice,” they said in unison. “We-will-see-you-again-when-our-children-allow-us.” They turned to leave, heading for the door. But before they got too far, Peggy turned back around. Her eyes flashing red once more, and speaking with the same childish voice as before, she looked directly at the Insta-Princess’s bulging belly.

“Hail, Mephistopheles, our future brother.”

And, then left.

Thus, I fear, our future is cemented. Wiggy, our very own Child of the Corn.

At the very least, it’d make for a cool movie.

I probably should be a little ashamed to admit this, but since I lack such good sense, I gleefully admit that I’ve been to not just one, but two Oz museums. The first as I was driving back home from a visit to Chicago. I saw signs begging me to abandon the highway and pay a visit to a little lonely house in Chesterton, Indiana.

“Oz museum?” I mused. “What could be more fun than that?”

Turns out, a lot. Mold, poisonous frogs, invading aliens, jagged rectal thermometers; they all would be more fun, I assume (especially that last one), than the Indiana Oz museum. Not because it wasn’t a clean and nice place–it was; nor because the people who ran it were vicious and carried studded whips–I’m fairly sure they didn’t; but because I was surrounded by schmaltzy movie memorabilia. Quite honestly, I don’t care much for the movie, and had wanted to see the original books and ephemera produced when L. Frank Baum was alive and churning out his turn-of-the-century fairy tales. That said, I did abscond with two mugs graced by the illustrations of John R. Neill, the Royal Illustrator of Oz.

A couple of weekends ago, on my birthday, I headed to the second museum in Wamego, Kansas. Wamego is a small, cute town with two museums (one dedicated to Wamego itself) and not much else. The museum I saw original prints of the books, the original color plates of the illustrations by both John R. Neill and W. W. Denslow (Denslow illustrated The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and Neill took over the artists duties for the rest), as well as a 1901 board game, advertisements for stage productions of the day, and, of course, some schmaltzy movie memorabilia. Unfortunately, no mugs. But I did get a hat.

Which didn’t fit.

I forgot to take my camera with me, so all I had to grab a few quick shots was my phone. Which, of course, with the low lighting and lack of flash, didn’t produce masterpieces. (Not that you’re all clamoring to see a 1960s poster of some kid munching on Oz peanut butter.)

Here’s the thing, though: if it weren’t for the Oz books, I’m not sure I would have met and eventually married the Insta-Princess. When I first ran across the Insta-Princess, it was through an on-line message board; she had started a thread complaining about some e-mail she had received, and had listed her profile location as “Land of Oz”. Thinking that she, too, had read the books (although, these days, years later, I’m not sure what led me to that specific conclusion), I wrote the following as my very first words to her:

“I wanna be your Phanfasm of passion, your Yookoohoo of yearning, your Tottenhot of tenderness, your Argonaut of affection and, most of all, your Winsome Waggish Warbler of wuv!

And if that doesn’t work, think I could bribe you with some silver shoes or a magic belt from an ex-Gnome king? “

Rico, eh? Suave, no? To her credit, the Insta-Princess played along even though she had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I’m surprised, a week or two later, I managed to wrangle a first date out of her. Go figure.

It must be because I’m a Winsome Waggish Warbler of Wuv.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce, to you, the face of Wiggy:

It’s really only half a face (the other half hidden in sono-shadow, not that Wiggy’s missing half a face), but you can make out the top part of the nose, a bit of the lip, one “Is Wiggy giving us the stink eye?!” eye, and… hair. Fuzzy hair that’s tickling the kidneys.

Oh! The doctor gave us the most delightful news today; in fact, I so wish I could have captured the look on the Insta-Princess’s face when he mentioned how Wiggy was urinating inside her. Yep, you read it right: Wiggy is peeing inside Da Momma.

I’m so happy I’m a guy.

ETA: Hmm… based on a few proclamations of puzzlement, I’ve decided to include a handy-dandy guide to the above picture. My first bit of advice is to step back and take a peek; you’ll be better able to see the face from a distance. If not, however, then take a gander at the following skillfully designed map of Wiggy:

Not only will my kid beat up your kid, but Wiggy will fry him with the laser. I know, right? I’m the best dad, evah!

A short, quick post for you combination political junkies/Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans out there (there’s gotta be at least tens of tens of us):

The GOP Primary Field in Buffy Villains

(Mucho gracias to Cogitamus for the chuckle.)

Oh, okay, because you asked; here’s a fun selection from Buffy’s musical episode, Once More, With Feeling. This episode finds our perky and intrepid heroes trying to suss out why everyone in town is suffering from severe cases of Fox-Trot and Aria:

Be sure to stick around for bunnies and mustard.

Okay, okay! One more. In this one, also from the musical episode, you get to see vampires dance. I mean, c’mon, vampires… dancing! You can’t go wrong with that:

To begin with, Happy New Year!

To continue, have I mentioned my wife’s car, Lois? If not, let me contribute a quick summary: I loathe her. It’s not ‘hate’ I feel, for hate is almost too simple, almost too Saturday morning cartoonish; I don’t despise Lois, because ‘despisableness’ is much too long a word, making it a pain to keep on typing it in case, you know, I want to show off its noun form. No, I loathe Lois because she has been little more than expensive trouble since the day we got her. (Okay, the day we got her was rather kind of mild: a little snow, some ice, but overall, not too bad. Considering we drove her home without a license plate, I’d say she didn’t cause us one bit of worry in our burgeoning career as minor automotive code criminals.)

Lois is a Volkswagen, and Volkswagen as a company stinks like rotten fruit. (The smelly kind. I’ve no idea whether sweet-smelling rotten fruit exists, but I live in the world of nitpickers, so I thought I’d clear that up before any objections are made.) Volkswagen has refused to fix an engine oil sludge issue covered under warranty without first cornering us into paying over $500 in unrelated charges; her brakes and tires have given way a year after we brought her home; Lois’s signal indicator has crapped out; her cupholders suck (truly, VW has no idea how to design a car interior); in fact, Lois is such a snot that the Insta-Princess and I proudly and defiantly flip the bird at the local VW dealer each day as we pass by on the way to work. True, such unrestrained middle finger usage has earned us some rather nasty looks from unsuspecting fellow drivers thinking they are the target of our distempered digits, but so far we’ve avoided road rage.

So, knowing how I loathe Lois, even I was surprised how sorry I felt for her this past Saturday when poor Lois, for the second time this year, had her ass busted. Yes, as the Insta-Princess and I were sitting at a red light silently fuming over Lois’s crappy cupholders, a cute redhead lobbed her Lexus into the back of Lois. Ouch. Lois’s bumper buckled, meaning we’ll have to get it replaced (all courtesy of the redhead… who was, as I mentioned, rather cute and wearing somewhat tight clothing, so that’s okay) again, less than a year after the last time someone else hit us from behind as we were patiently waiting at a red light.

“Lois?!” you fume. “You’re sitting here talking about Lois when the Insta-Princess was pregnant? What about her, what about Wiggy?”

You’re right, of course.

The Insta-Princess and Wiggy are fine, thanks for fuming. A little discomfort was felt after the accident, so we drove to the ER to have both passengers looked over. I’m thrilled we did for a few reasons:

• The Insta-Princess turned out okay.
• Wiggy moved and grooved to the monitors for the three hours he/she was being watched.
• Our maternity nurse, Karalie, is my new super-secret girlfriend.
• Finally, the walls were just thin enough and our room just silent enough that I got to hear the woman next door scream out in labor a few times, and then, just when I thought she had given up, stuffed everything back inside and headed home, I heard a baby scream. “It’s a boy!” someone shouted. It was pretty cool.

Interestingly enough, Karalie mentioned that some hospitals don’t allow video cameras filming when the doctor pulls the baby from the hoohaw.  “It’s a liability issue,” she told us.  Huh.  You’d think they’d come up with a better way of telling us they don’t want to be sued for a botched delivery.  Still, Karalie wasn’t a delivering doctor, and she was very, very cute, so that’s okay.

So, Wiggy’s fine, the Insta-Princess is still sweetness and light, Karalie is f-i-n-e, and Lois’s cupholders are the pits.  How was your New Year’s weekend?

Here’s a round of Happy Holidays to the teeming millions reading this blog. To help celebrate the season at our house, we put together a stocking for Wiggy:

Wiggy keeps trying to get to it, I’ve been told, because the Insta-Princess has woken each morning this past week to see some part of Wiggy pressing against her stomach. (Kinda like Alien, only without so much gore.) The Insta-Princess had been telling me for a while now that Wiggy was jumping jacks in her belly, but each time I placed my hand on her stomach to catch some movement for myself, Wiggy calmed down.

Until last night. As an early holiday gift, Wiggy allowed me to catch him/her in the spotlight: I finally felt the sucka wiggling and jiggling. It was very cool. So, thanks, Wiggy; I’ll be sure to fill your stocking with something nice this year. (Like a gift card to Micro Center… ’cause, c’mon, really, what kind of gift card can you get a fetus?)

I’m off to do some last minute shopping.  You all have a wonderful and safe holiday.

Aww, man, they killed Danny! (You bastards!)

Listen, God, I know I don’t believe you and whatnot, but that’s cool; we can still be buds, right? Nice. Rock on. So, anyway, as we sip on some gin, maybe some juice, I’m thinking we might be able to barter a bit. How’ bout you return Dan to us and I’ll give you, say, Sheryl Crow? She’s moderately attractive, not a great singer, and did I mention she’s not too difficult to look at?

Not enough? Okay, fine. I was going to offer up Bono, but the Insta-Princess would kill me, and no offense, Your Mightiness, but on a day-to-day basis I tend to fear her more. (See, you might send a lightning bolt and frazzle my fizzle in an instant, but she’d make my expiration date last for daaaays. Ever play Monopoly? Same thing, only with cheese graters.) So, I’ll give you that Crow dame, and you can also have Josh Groban.

I almost said Michael Bolton, but at the last moment I realized Groban’s afro scared me more than Bolton’s bald spot.

So, Crow and Groban? How about it? Truly, they are Leaders of the Bland.

Awaitin’ Your Thumbs-Up,

Skippy

Lest you walk away with an opposite opinion, let me mention for the record that the Insta-Princess and I are fierce warriors. “But, Skippy,” you chuckle, “actions are important here, not words. Anyone can vouch for their own warriorocity, but we require records of deeds and darings. Maybe even a shrunken head or two—we try not to be picky.”

You doubt, oh Thomas, but reel back in horror from these gruesome photographic chronicles:

See what she’s doing? The Insta-Princess uses her charm and attractiveness to lure the tree into a false sense of security. “I love you. You’re pretty and a thing of nature,” she reassures the tree. “But soon,” she whispers with wickedness, “lights and hooks and decorative balls and mini-Santas will hang from your helpless limbs!”

As my partner in the hunt lulls the tree with her words of false love, I sneak up on it and wrestle it to the ground! (In case you’re wondering, that’s what I’m doing in the photo above. Seriously. I’ve no idea why people insist something else is going on.) This particular chase of our wooden Beast Glatisant was fraught with peril; a few times, before I finally sawed through its base, I nearly lost my life. See its brethren trees in the background? Don’t think they didn’t try helping one of their own. They travel in packs, these trees, and if you’re not careful you’ll find one trying to poke you in the eye as you pass by it. (Sometimes, even, piping up in imitation of your wife’s voice saying, “I’m sorry, I forgot to hold the branch for you.”)

In the end, we succeeded with our quest and took our trophy home:

Like the decorations? I know, right, I obviously have an eye for awesome design even before I’ve had a few glasses of Glenfiddich.

Don’t like the decorations? My wife threw them on when I wasn’t looking. “I’m wicked, I’m wicked!” she shouted. “Says so right in this blog entry!”

Oh! By the way, I’ve got a new joke that my wife—in her wickedness—failed to appreciate. “I tried looking up the tree skirt,” I told her. “But all I saw was a buncha fir.”

I know, right, I obviously have an ear for awesome jokes.

Quite honestly, it’s the turkey’s fault. The bird, you see, is bland. As the centerpiece for the year’s most monumental meal, you’d think tradition would demand a tastier carnal sacrifice. Steaks, for example; while the butthole of a carved-up cow is slightly more difficult to stuff with celery and bits of crumpled bread, the reward of a red meat repast is well worth the effort. (Of course, the first problem with this scenario being the location of the moo-moo’s poop-chute. I mean, is it in the ribeye, the KC strip, the sirloin or the club steak? My god, have we been salivating all the years over filet mignon only to discover we’ve been duped by Bessie and her co-horts–a final jest of tasty ordure delivered to our unsuspecting palates as we sizzle her flank and roast her rump?) Serving steak, one separate plate per person, also imparts the dignified notion that each one of us is different, that we don’t all have to feed at the same flighty trough. And, with the turkey you have racial decisions with which to wrestle (dark meat! white meat!), but with steak, why, it’s all pink in the middle.

The Insta-Princess worships Thanksgiving. The pies, the bird, the trimmings and the drinks, she’s a big fan of all of it. “Good Eats” is her motto this time of the year, and although I respect her love for the holiday, I’d be just as happy to kick it out of the pantheon of days off during the year and replace it with, I dunno, maybe something like my birthday.

Bingo.

I’ve been bored by Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. As a kiddo (I was frickin’ adorable) I was forced to get dressed up and go forth to a family member’s house (usually my maternal grandparents) and do absolutely nothing. Oh, sure, we were allowed some cuts of dry meat and horrible gravy, but after dinner in a house full of adults who, frankly, weren’t paying any attention to us, there was nothing to do. The one television was hidden behind a swarm of aunts and uncles; the only toys in the house were leftover Barbies circa my mother’s childhood; running outside was forbidden lest we bring holy ruin to our clothes; and if the television ever did make an appearance, it was tuned to a football game. No books, no games, no wrestling, no races, nothing.

Worst of all, no gifts.

There, I said it. I despise Thanksgiving to this day because I got absolutely zilch out of it as a wee one. I mean, hey, Easter was slightly worse in some ways (had to sit through an hour of hard wooden pews and boring sermons before our ecclesiastical sentence was lifted for the day), but you ended up with chocolate galore and plastic Easter eggs filled with yet more treats of both the cash variety and the edible kind. (Fittingly enough, if all eggs weren’t found you could hunt for them up to three days later, thus introducing a special brand of divine ressurrection.) Thanksgiving, however, there were no bright baskets holding a tasty Peter Cottontail prisoner in an equally bright box; there were no gifts under a tree waiting to be unwrapped and fawned over; there were no candy hearts and Scooby-Doo wishes for a Happy Valentine’s Day; there were no birthday cakes and no candles to blow out. No, there was just boring old turkey and the official colors of Thanksgiving: brown and more brown. Blah, I insist, it’s a blah holiday.

Blah-humbug.

Skippy go zooooooooooooooooommmmmmm!

Officer go: “Stop!” (Sadly, not in the name of love.)

Skippy go:

Officer go: Busted!

Skippy go: “A ticket? But I was only going 76 in a 60!”

Officer go: “Haw-Haw. Puny man.”

Skippy go: “Awww!”

Skippy goes s-l-o-w-e-r… until officer go away. Then, zooooooooooooooooommmmmmm!

(We won’t mention the exhorbitant fees it’ll take to get this pled down to a harmless, we-won’t-screw-with-your-insurance-rates, charge, mind you. Because that just takes away from my rebel-like demeanor. You can’t very well tell The Man to go to hell when you’re paying him for the pleasure of doing so. Also, yes, my rough-and-tough leather jacket is lambskin… why do you ask?)

Having just learned the meaning of the title of this post, let me admit to already being in love with it. It’s a euphemism, friends, Romans, countrymen; it’s a delightful way of saying I’m snookered. And not the snookered that comes with being snooked from the delightful game of ‘snook’ (I confess to not knowing if there is such a creature); no, instead, although I possess enough faculties to recall the existence and possible appropriateness of using a semi-colon, I am without a doubt, and thanks to the help of the BBC for suppling me with the term, snozzled.

That is, drunk.

Also, cocksuckers.

The last, I admit, is the influence of having watched nearly three seasons of ‘Deadwood’ within a week. “But Skip,” you rightly protest. “Surely there are better ways to spend your time. There are blankets to feed and homeless to give out; there are 1-800 numbers to call so as to pledge your charity and love and fine attention to detail of the altruistic sort. What be-ith your path?”

Cocksuckers.

Well, okay. I take my education in 19th century territorial speech (as presented by those peckerwoods at HBO programming) a bit too seriously. But, as lax as their attention to history might be, they do present a compelling case in the support of whiskey. Specifically, in my case, scotch. Their bartenders in the show dispense fermented corn and grain in prodigious amounts (fuck off; I spelled “prodigious” without your help), so earlier this week I ventured forth from the confines of a dog pile of devastating illnesses (walking pneumonia, stomach flu, and astounding good looks… if you must know, you nosy wankers) to hunt for the elusive whiskey bottle. Instead, what I stumbled across was a bottle of single-malt Glenmorangggggie.

Skip’s Total Knowledge of Single-Malt Scotch:

It only has one malt. Not even a shake, nor smoothie, nor cup of swirled yogurt, but one malt. One. Uno. Less than two, but more than less than one.

So, is that what trapped me tonight in rapture of its blitzed glory? No. Kinda. Mostly, though, I blame the Shiraz. ‘Shiraz’, my friends is Australian for “We pretend it’s wine.” And pretend well they do, indeed; I was almost convinced as per my grand education at the America School For Vino. (This is true, so do not doubt me at my word. You may not find such a school even after the sweatiest, most grueling Google search, but fret not. I would never lie to you; I, who has been truthful from Day One. I also darn my socks. The socks I received after graduating from the America School For Vino. See? Proof.) But just to be sure, and in honor of my wife who cannot help suss out what is genuine wine and what is genuine wine in her current state of glorious knocked-up, I downed the whole bottle in her honor. After that, I chased it with a shot of scotch so as to teach that wine a lesson.

Which finds me here, at the computer, idly wondering what happens after I push the letters on this keyboard. Tomorrow, I fear, I will find out. I, a courageous adventure, will discover after reading this entry, the malaria of my mind. I only hope that I insert the correct number of commas.

Also, thanks to Deadwood, I hope to open a saloon at the end of the week. The gals all have hearts of gold, it seems, and the whiskey flows freely. Plus, let’s admit, the double doors gracing the entryway are kind of cool.

Oh, Rubber Ducky, you’re the one.
You make bath time lots of fun.

Especially when you whip out the handcuffs and ball gag.

Quack!

An old high school friend of mine recently opened up a shop devoted to the wares that bind and titillate and hum and zig and zag and slather and vibrate as if powered by Marquis de Energizer Bunny. It’s a ye olde shoppe devoted to exploration and education of delectation and tawdriness, and as far as I could tell when I hung around (stop it!) for a half-hour waiting for my friend to return to the store, its patrons seem delighted with the items on sale, and the knowledge for gratis.

So, if you’re in Kansas City and need something to help push your buttons (or someone else’s), take a stroll down to Wink, where you can squeal for delight at the great number of toys within, or do so with the help of a vibrator with, at last count, three motors and three million settings. (I might be off by a hundred. And you think I’m joking…)

Aside from the oils and other sybaritic delights peppered about the store, it was good to see Elizabeth again. Over the years, long past graduation, we’ve run into each other a handful of times, and each meeting is always memorable and a hoot. Elizabeth is definitely a one-of-a-kind, sweet gal whose presence always stirs up a cheery and charming je ne sais quoi. A fierce and dedicated compadre, it’s a delight to have known her this long, and I’ve little doubt that her little boy will grow up to reflect having such a groovy mom. So, I hope her new pleasure pad of play serves both her and her customers well for years to, um… come.

By the way, she’ll always be “Liz” to me. That’s how I first new her, and how I remember her the best. “Elizabeth” is a flow of fun syllables, no doubt, but “Liz” is a celebration of the zed, the omega of a seductive and serpentine dance all short and sweet.

You know, like her.

Well, now… I found this oldie but (questionable) goody from yon days of early high school. Do you recall those youthful days of seven hour periods (the class kind, not the flowing variety) when you and your peers started branching out from more sanctioned, conventional comedy and trying your hands at the surreal and unexpected? To some, this meant discovering Monty Python or Tom Robbins; to others, it meant trying to be funny, which often lead to not being funny at all. But, you tried, and that’s what’s important. Or, that’s what’s important in today’s post because I feel sympathy for my young self–who never foresaw the Internet, or that his attempt at humor would be seen by such a wide audience.

I don’t exactly recall what prompted The Bob Theory, but I do know that its origins are tethered to a middle school discussion where Brian Knarr and I were musing over the name “Bob”. (This was many years and numerous beers before we discovered J.R. “Bob” Dobbs.) No one, we figured out, would ever be afraid of a monster by the name “Bob”.

“Look out! Rampaging down the street, it’s… Bob?”

See? Wouldn’t work. You can’t be scared of Bob. You can be frightened by a Robert who tries to pretend to be a Bob, but we all know the truth in the end. Monsters are Roberts, not Bobs.

Brian eventually moved away, but not before the name weighed anchor in my hormone-laden adolescent mind. So, a few years later, caught up in a fit of attempted high school humor, I rushed to the Apple IIgs lab and dashed off the following masterpiece:

The Bob Theory

Rules for BOB:

1. Bob is everything.
2. 1 + 1 = Bob.
3. Bob hates all gifted people, but they equal Bob, anyway.
4. Skip created Bob, therefore Skip is the Creator.
5. Skip = Bob
6. Bob never = Skip
7. Always spell Bob backwards.
8. Bob is always right.
9. When Bob is wrong, see Rule #8.
10. Bob expects presents on his birthday, which is every day. (Caretaker of presents = Skip.)
11. Bob does not like you.
12. Bob loves you.
13. George is Bob’s second-in-command.
14. George is a phone.
15. Bob disproves the Zebra Theory; Bob is the Zebra.
16. Disciples of Bob play the plastic harmonica.
17. You are all disciples of Bob.
18. Bob claims Welsh is the language of the future. If you disagree, see Rule #8.
19. Bob can make up new rules whenever he pleases.
20. Bob syas that J.F.K. was killed by a magic bullet sent by the Wicked Witch of the West.
21. Bob proves that chemistry does not exist; instead, everything is made up of tiny particles of Bobectrons, Bobtons, and NuetrBobs.
22. Dragons and unicorns are real.
23. Bob is better looking than Axl Rose.
(See Rule #24 under #28.)
25. Bob is Jeannie’s boyfriend, therefore Bob does not exist.
26. Only Skip and Kyla can make up Bob Rules (with Skip as the final authority).
27. People against Bob are communist spies.
28. Chris Lytle is the only person who can equal Bob, but Bob cannot equal him unless Chris chooses so. Chris is a non-Bob Bobber.
24. If you have any questions, refer to Rule #1.

F.A.Q.s

• Who was George?
• George was a phone. (Duh.) George, was the first phone I ever truly owned; it was given to me along with my first private phone line. One fateful day my step-father, angry for some reason long since forgotten, grabbed George and threw him down two stories and onto our marble entryway. George, alas, didn’t survive. Thereafter, he was known as “Drop Dead Fred”.
• What was the Zebra Theory?
• Aww, geez. I don’t know, exactly. At least, I don’t have the details in memory. I do recall, however, that the Zebra Theory was a competing theory created because mine wasn’t entirely funny. Was it funnier? Probably. I hope whomever created the Zebra Theory burns in hell.
• Plastic harmonica?
• Dude, I owned one. Probably got it out of a Happy Meal, and it was the first thing I thought of when I was trying to persuade Bob to play an instrument. I own numerous harmonicas now, by the way, and some of them are even real.
• Welsh?
• Yeah, Welsh. I never did get beyond some basic phrases: Mae fy hofrenfad yn llawn o lyswennod. (“My hovercraft is full of eels.” It’s very useful if you’re ever running about Wales in a hovercraft and get attacked by a roving band of eels. Study up on your foreign languages, kids.)
• Axl Rose? What’s an Axl Rose?
• People have been asking that question for years. He couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance, and couldn’t help but be swamped by hordes of gorgeous young women who wanted to give him booty and booty. At any rate, some young female acquaintance of mine must have made a positive comment concerning Axl’s heroin-chic looks and thus cemented his place in the theory.
• Rule #24.
• Rule #24 must have been where the theory originally ended, but I believe I was cajoled into adding more rules. Rule #24 remained the last rule, though, no matter the number of edits.
• Did Jeannie ever find a boyfriend?
• Of course. Bob exists.
• Who’s this Kyla chick?
• Best friend of one of my girlfriends.  So, when she told me to add her as an authority, why, I did such a thing. What can I say? I’ve always been weak.

I’m leaving Chris Lytle’s full name in this entry. Maybe, one day, bored at work, he’ll whip up a quick Google vanity search and run across this page. In that case, “Hi, Chris!”

My Gott, we were such goobers back then.