Thursday, June 28, 2007

Damaged Goods

My wife has been in a training class all week. She's been learning about how to teach people with different learning styles - and since everybody has a different learning style, this is good stuff to know. The training class is called "All Kinds of Minds."

In her discussions she's learned about different constructs. One construct is the social construct. One aspect of the social construct is humor. My wife is learning about how to cope with people who are the class clowns or who say inappropriate things and inappropriate times.

This is where I come in.

Apparently I have a problem with my "humor regulation functionality" within my "social cognition construct." When I am placed in a situation where I should obviously not say whatever is in my head at the moment, I say it anyway. This is apparently a bad thing.

My humor is broken!

From now on I am supposed to think about what I say before I say it. Hopefully that will give me more time to think of a real zinger.

I've been told that some things I put on the blog are inappropriate for parents or small children, and that I should create a separate blog for posts that would be offensive or inappropriate for parents / small children. Just comparing parents to small children is funny enough for me. But I think that is discrimination, and I am a uniter, not a divider. If I don't get the chance to offend my parents once a day then I have failed as a child.

Maybe my humor isn't broken - maybe this so-called "social cognition construct" is just a farce. All Kinds of Minds, my ass! I think I just humor regulation functionalied in my pants.

Learning to Fly

The worst part about flying anywhere is going through airport security. What a miserable job! You have to rummage through people's stuff all day, everybody hates you, and worst of all, you have to work with other incompetent airport security screeners. I would say that the worst part is giving people cavity searches, but I bet that's the highlight of an airport security screener's day.

The whole idea of airport security bugs me. For instance, I'm a little concerned about the TSA's rules on prohibited and permitted items. I realize that there are terrorists with toxins, poisons, etc. But is forcing people to put their gels and liquids in a 3 ounce ziploc our nation's best defense against terrorism?

What's the whole ziploc bag thing about anyway? Can the X-ray machine determine ricin from cologne? Does the TSA think terrorists are so dumb that their poison container will be a clear bottle filled with a green potion, having a skull and crossbones on a black label? Man, we're in trouble.

Another prohibited items: meat cleavers, swords, and spear guns.

The funny thing is, if the TSA didn't say that you couldn't bring a sword on a plane, you know some a-hole would do it. And when said a-hole was asked about his sword, he would say, "Show me in the rules where it says you can't bring a sword!" Then he would sue the airline for all its worth. Then the government would spend money to bail the airlines out (again). So I get why swords are on this list.

I just think the airlines could be smarter. For instance, when we were in Washington, D.C. waiting in line to see the Statue of Liberty, we had to go through a bomb/poison detector. Basically, it looked just like a metal detector, but when you stood in the middle of it a blast of air shot out at you. This blast of air knocked particles off of your clothes, into the atmosphere, and then the bomb/poison detector sniffed those particles out to see if you were a prime candidate for a good colon scrub. And you know what? Everyone was patient, everyone understood what it was for, and most of all, everyone knew that this was so much smarter than putting your belongings in a ziploc bag.

Maybe every airport can't afford multiple bomb/poison detecting equipment. But I think if the government is going to keep bailing the airlines out every time they go $15 billions into debt, we should be getting something for our money other than multiple pairs of rubber gloves for the airport screener's perverse enjoyment.

Can you tell that I'm ready for a vacation or what?!?

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

True Colors

We started packing for our trip to San Francisco. Usually when we pack I just lay around on the couch while Betty does all the hunting/gathering for wearable clothes, otherwise she makes me try everything on. Better to stay out of the way while she does her magic.

But I figured since San Francisco is the gayest town in America, I would do something subtle like make a rainbow out of my clothes, like so:

ROYGBIV, bitch!
(Click the picture if any part of it is cut off to see it in all its glory.)

I wonder if there really is a Roy G. Biv. If there is, I bet he's a homicidal maniac. I bet he also lives in San Fran.

Gaying up my wardrobe wasn't my only choice, of course. San Francisco has a lot of homeless people, so if I wear my regular clothes then I'll fit right in. I might even get a free blanket or two in San Fran. But then what would be the point of going on vacation?

So okay, my rainbow attire is not going to be noticed by anyone but you and me. It'll be our little joke. Just like how my fanny pack is going to contain only a plastic fanny. If anyone else notices, they are either very astute or avid readers of the Tantrum, and in either case I'll buy them a beer.

We'll also be going to wine country, so I've packed my migrant outfit as well as packed my copy of The Grapes of Wrath.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Balls of Steel

Have you ever heard the expression "balls of steel?" As when someone does something heroic, brave or just plain dumb, and someone says, "Wow, that guy has balls of steel!"

I don't know if it would be all that good to have balls of steel. I can think of a few downsides right off the top of my head. For starters, you'd have to explain your situation every time you went through airport security. Also, you'd sink a lot faster in water, so you'd want to stick to high ground. Being around water would be hazardous, anyway, because you wouldn't want your balls of steel to rust.

I bet being around magnets would be a pain in the balls, too.

Plus, not being able to reproduce with a lady-friend is a downside. But you could always still try, I guess. Superman was the Man of Steel, and as far as I know, he never got it on with Lois Lane. I blame the chrome, dude.

In conclusion, while having balls of steel may sound awesome and heroic, there's really no reason why you'd want them. Having said that, if you are determined to use some sort of natural or man-made substitute for your genitalia, steel is probably your best choice.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Mushroom Cloud

I am enraged. Hulk smash!

I specifically bought a veggie pizza to eat for my special vegetable-and-tree bark diet. But what did I find on my succulent pizza? A mushroom.

A mushroom!

Listen up, pizza makers of America: mushrooms are not vegetables. Mushrooms are fungi! Didn't you go to the fifth grade?

Mushrooms are evil disgusting alien life forms that digest food by secreting enzymes onto their victim, then sucking the soggy goodness back into their orifices. They're basically like the fly of the non-animal planet. They are decomposers. And I will not have them in my pizza.

I'm really angry that Roy L. Pearson, Jr., the asshat judge from Washington, DC, lost his case against the dry cleaners. Because I could really go for a frivolous lawsuit against whatever health food yuppie put mushrooms in my pizza. Damn you, Pearson! You stupid, fat, miserable excuse for a human! You're a judge, for crying out loud, how can you be so friggin stupid?!

You are what you eat, and I don't want to be a mushroom. But I can feel my sweat starting to disintegrate my surroundings. I want to be a fun guy, but not like this.

I shouldn't blame the actual pizza makers. Instead I should blame the marketers. This is false advertising at its most harmful. All I'm saying is, if my head grows any more misshapen, I'm coming after somebody.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

The Well Ran Dry

Saturday night we went to a wedding for one of my wife's friends. We knew a lot of people in attendance and the ceremony was short and sweet. So far, so good.

The reception was at the Baton Rouge Country Club. Sounds nice, doesn't it? It had everything: good music, good food, and...

Wait, did I say everything? I meant it had almost everything.

It had no alcohol.

The bride's mom decided at the last minute that the bride had to decide which one she wanted more at the wedding: the mom or alcohol. Like a woman planning a wedding needs any more stress.

I'll be honest, I only agreed to go for the free food and drinks. That sounds shallow, but let's put things into perspective: I didn't know these people. All I knew of them was that my wife had bought two very nice gifts for the bride. The least they could do was feed and water me. Alas, we were left to our own devices.

Surely, we thought, there must be some place in the Baton Rouge Country Club where alcohol was being served, and it was just a matter of finding this alcohol oasis. So off on a scavenger hunt we went, scouring the countryside for a bar of some sort and missing all of the sobriety back at the reception.

Unfortunately, all alcohol-rendering services of the Baton Rouge Country Club are off-limits to non-members. But if there was ever a time to spend the money to join the Country Club, there was no better time than now.

But there was hope. The majority of attendees were LSU alumni, and years of sneaking alcohol into Tiger Stadium has trained us to handle all dry situations. We found a couple of people smart enough to bring flasks to the reception and mooched off of them.

We knew someone in the band, and had a little chat with him before the party really got going. He said that dry receptions are always a little more difficult, because sober people don't really get down and dirty on the dance floor. In fact, 3/4 of the attendees left after the cake was cut. But I have to say, watching the bride's sober father do the Robot to "Da Butt" was pretty hilarious. Also hilarious: watching his face after someone pulled him aside and explained to him what that song meant.

After the reception we went to Ringside, the bar at Sullivan's. We saw the bride and groom there drinking it up. What!? Shouldn't those people be off having sex somewhere? I smell an annulment.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

The Smartest Children

Norwegian researchers found that the oldest child in the family usually has a higher IQ than the other siblings.

I'm not going to attempt to debate this. In fact, I'm sure it's true.

My brother is the oldest child in my family, and I have to admit, he's pretty smart. Smarter than I am, for sure. My sister, although younger than me, is smarter than I am, too. But I'm still Mom's favorite, so in your face, siblings!

Interestingly enough, the research's finding held true even when the first-born child didn't survive and a younger child was reared as the eldest. (Aka, watch your back, brother! Muahahaha!)

Here's what some scientist dude said, in a thick Norwegian accent: "Indirectly, it supports the theory that social support and attention within the family explain the difference. First children will not have to share this attention at first. The more children, the less attention will be provided to each child if parental resources are limited."

I have to say, I disagree with this scientist's opinion. Well, let's just say it's an incomplete analysis. I think the reason why first born children are smarter is that they have to figure everything out on their own. As for me, I always had someone to look up to and emulate. I basically just did whatever my brother did. He led the way, and I followed in his footsteps. I'm like a baby brother lemming.

So I guess I should say thanks to my brother for making all of the mistakes first and learning from them, so I could just learn by watching him. I learned it by watching you!

Friday, June 22, 2007

Shallowly Sorry

I've noticed that whenever anyone gets in trouble with the media, they respond by saying they are "deeply sorry."

Case in point:

In 2006, the Pope was deeply sorry for his remarks on Islam and violence offended Muslims.

Prez Bush was deeply sorry for the Pat Tillman fiasco, and Rumsfield was deeply sorry about US abuses at Gitmo.

Michael Richards, aka Cosmo Kramer, was deeply sorry for his racial remarks after being heckled on stage.

Remember that guy who was shot in the face by Dick Cheney? He was deeply sorry for putting his head in the way of Cheney's gun.

Don Imus? Deeply sorry.

I get the feeling that people aren't really sorry at all, and that it's all a marketing ploy. Saying you are "deeply sorry" is like saying, "I feel as though I should be sorry, but you know what, I'm feeling kinda good right now."

I do think, however, that people really are deeply sorry when they are apologizing for other people's actions. For example, I believe the family of Seung Hui Cho, the Virginia Tech gunman, when they say they are deeply sorry for Cho's actions.

For my part, I would like to shallowly apologize to anyone out there who've I've ever offended. I'm sorry, but only sorry enough so that you won't try to sue and/or kill me, and not sorry enough that you won't stew in your own angst at a later date. Please accept my shallow apology. I'm only apologizing so you'll get off my back.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

New Inventions

I came up with a couple of sweet inventions the other day that I just can't help but to blog about. If anyone steals my ideas, so help me God I'll track you down and blog my foot up your butt.

Invention #1: Hybrid Satellite Radio / Radar Detector

Radar detectors are illegal in most states, and Sirius and XM satellite radios rock! So why not combine the two and have your radar detector as part of your satellite radio? If a cop pulls you over (and really, why would he if you have this awesome invention?) then you can just turn up some tasty jams and let him rock out to Free Bird (hint hint), or if you're a girl just give the age-old booby peak and get out of jail free. It's the perfect crime! (Subscription to satellite radio service and/or Victoria's Secret would be required.)

Invention #2: The Americanizer

The Americanizer is really just a humongous pair of plastic testicles with Velcro on the back. Whenever you meet a guy from France or come across Al Gore whining about the environment, slap the Americanizer on his crotch and give him a pair of nads. Go nads! Who needs basic health care and labor reforms when you have a plastic pair of American manliness on your side?

And finally...

Invention #3: Shopping Cart / Cute Butt Radar Combo

I've been pretending to have Cute Butt Radar for too long. I want the real thing!

It goes like this: you're a guy, and your wife / girlfriend / random girl tricks you into going shopping with her. You now need to keep yourself occupied. How to do this? Cute butt radar, of course.

The classic game of Cute Butt Radar is played like so:

1. Grab an empty shopping cart from the front of the store.
2. Announce in a clear and loud voice that 'Cute Butt Radar' is now in effect.
3. Lower your head so your eyes are level with the cart's handle bar.
4. Follow your wife, girlfriend, etc, around the store.
5. Make beeping sounds like radar or sonar every 5-10 seconds.
6. Increment number of beeps per second as you approach the cute butt in question.
7. You are the winner when you catch up to the targeted heiny, or when your wife finally gets so fed up with you that she agrees to take you home.

My invention is really just an elaboration on this basic premise. With two pedometers and BlueTooth technology, we can track how far the cart is from the butt in question. We can throw in GPS if you're planning on going to a Super Wal-Mart.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

A New View

I think I called that surge of electricity that blew my monitor away something along the lines of "evil." I would like to retract that statement. In fact, I'd like to buy that spark of electrons a tasty beverage of its choosing.

For a while I was perfectly fine being without my computer. I read a lot, and like to talk to my wife about her day, and daydream / fight phantom ninjas / talk to myself the rest of the time, so it's not like there isn't other stuff that I can do while not surfing the Intarweb. I was perfectly cool being disconnected from the rest of the digital universe for an entire day!

But then my addiction hit. I started sweating and shaking. I crawled to my computer and gently rubbed the monitor port. I sat with my burnt out monitor in my lap, weeping and rubbing my hands through its plastic hair.

Why!?!? What did I do to deserve this?!

But today I went to Best Buy after work and bought a 22" monitor. It's the circle of life!

My monitor is now way too big. I don't know why anyone in their right mind would buy a 22" monitor. But damn do I love it!

Now if I could just figure out a way to blow my TV up....

Monday, June 18, 2007

Goodbye to an Old Friend

While I was away at work, an evil surge of electricity snuck into my house via lightning strike and blew my monitor to pieces. Boom!

Everything attached to my surge protector was safe and sound, humming gently to themselves, except for my monitor. It was blacker than the inside of a coffin on a moonless night - damn that's black! Then it was on the ground, in pieces, after I knocked it around for a while.

Have you ever seen "Entourage" on HBO? There's this one episode where one of the characters, "Johnny Drama," gets a massage and is totally calm and relaxed, then something horrendous happens to him and he gets really stressed out - stressed out enough to walk up to some punk picking on his brother and just laying into him. That was me today. I was Johnny Drama, coming home from a stressful day of work, and my dead monitor was the young punk that got his ass whupped. Victory!

In other news, someone just told me that the Tanory Tantrum doesn't always appear correctly via email. I'm going to look into this matter once I get a new, more reliable, undead monitor. (Shameless plug alert: By the way, if you didn't know, you can get the Tantrum via email, just look over to the right side of the blog and type in your email into the email thingy, and voila! Instant Tanory goodness every morning!)

I guess the point of this particular post is to enjoy life while it lasts, because you never know when an electric current will rip your monitor's brain out of its skull and fry it to a crisp. So kiss your children tonight, call an old friend, go out and have a night on the town, and pick up a surge protector on your way back home in the morning.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Six Flags Jesus

One thing I forgot to mention about Six Flags was that we would have had the park to ourselves if it weren't for "Atlanta Fest," a Christian festival taking place at Six Flags. The park was full of people wearing shirts with Christian slogans, anti-abortion slogans with pictures of fetuses, etc.

Now I could have handled all of that, except there was this one guy who kept chanting "Jesus" in all the lines for the rides. He would get everyone chanting it, too. "Gee-zus! Jeeeeee-sssuuuuuuuussss!"

You know the old saying: if you can't beat them, join them. So we started yelling, "Cheez whiz!"

It's not that I don't love me some Jesus. It's just that I like to pray silently to myself before a thrill ride so that God will help me to not die. Not to evangelize other Christians.

Anyway, that's my Six Flags Jesus story. We're heading out of Atlanta right now. See you later!

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Six Flags Atlanta

I got into Atlanta on Thursday night after my flight was originally delayed two hours, then attempted to take the MARTA to my final destination. I got a little lost on the MARTA railway, which is to be expected because I'm a total moron. But thankfully I overheard someone saying he was going to the same place I was, so then I just clandestinely shadowed him for several stops. I am like the night.

Friday we went to Six Flags in Atlanta. Six Flags has the Goliath, which is the tallest and fastest rollercoaster in the history of the world, and it was okay but not really life-threatening. I'm all about thrill rides.

The best rollercoaster at Six Flags was the Superman ride. On the Superman ride, once you're strapped into your seat, your seat rotates 90 degrees so that you are now parallel to the ground. It's like you're flying! Plus I was wearing my spandex pantaloons and cape, so I really felt like Superman.

But my favorite ride, of course, was the toilet at the Batman ride. In this particular restroom, they played the Batman themesong at full blast, so instead of doing a courtesy flush, all you had to do was wait for the song's climax. Incredible.

After Six Flags we went to Betty's uncle's house. Did I say "house?" I meant mansion. Uncle Jay's house is right by a lake, and he's got a pool, a bar, you name it he's got it. We played pool volleyball and a lens from my glasses popped out when I got hit in the head with the ball, but after the ball hit me it went to the other side of the pool and we scored. So it's cool - I'll take one for the team.

One thing I should mention is that we're staying in a Comfort Inn. Betty and her family were originally staying in the Sun Suites in Atlanta, but they checked out after one night. As Betty told me, "Bob, your mom would have taken one look at this room and told everyone that they were leaving to find another hotel." Betty's family found the following items in their room at the Sun Suites in Atlanta:

1. A nail on the floor.
2. A hair in the bed - you know which kind, too.
3. A stained bedsheet.
4. A dead person stuffed in the matress. Okay I made that one up.

We're heading back out to Betty's uncle house so I can chain myself to their bar and swallow the key. I may never return to Baton Rouge.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Customer Satisfaction

There's a bill floating around Congress that would allow the residents of Washington, DC, to vote.

You see, people in DC currently can't vote because DC isn't a state. DC does have a representative in the House of Reps, but like the rest of DC, the representative can't vote. DC is kind of like a territory, however, unlike other US territories, DC is subject to US laws and taxes, and this has the people of DC screaming something about "taxation without representation."

Psh, like fighting over taxation without representation ever did anything for anybody.

(Quick note: I just thought of a great name for a gym - "The House of Reps." Yeah, baby!)

I'm all for voting and everything, but it seems to me that every time DC has ever voted for anything, they've elected a crackhead. Maybe it's better if they just stick to being marginalized by society.

In fact, there's new evidence that strongly supports the opponents' views of the DC Voting Act. Case in point:

Everybody's been talking about this guy Roy L. Pearson, Jr., who is suing a dry cleaners for $54 million for losing a pair of pants. Why is everyone talking about this guy, other than the fact that it's ridiculous to sue somebody for that much money over a pair of pants? Well, Roy L. Pearson, Jr. is a judge in Washington, DC.

All I'm saying is, we hold our judges to a higher standard, and if this judge is that retarded, then maybe the rest of the DC-ians can't be trusted.

According to the AP, Mr. Pearson alleges that Jin Chung, Soo Chung and Ki Chung, owners of the mom-and-pop dry cleaning business, committed fraud and misled consumers with signs that claimed "Satisfaction Guaranteed" and "Same Day Service." But attempts at a settlement have failed - the Chungs offered to buy Mr. Pearson a new suit, but instead he not only wants compensation for his lost pants but also money to rent a car and drive to another place of business.

Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe the next time I get a burger from Burger King that isn't "my way" I'll sue them for millions of dollars. Then I'll sue them again for money to rent a car and drive to a McDonald's. Yeah! It's all about precedent - all we need is for one person to win a ridiculous case like this. We can only hope that Mr. Pearson wins his battle!

Oh damn, I'm on a diet - I can't eat fast food. I guess I'm against Pearson again. Screw you, Pearson!

On Wednesday, Mr. Pearson took the stand and cried over his pair of lost pants. I wish I made that up, but it's true. Sad, sad, sad.

The real tragedy of this entire thing is that this case has been going on since May of 2005. That's 2 years of ridiculous litigation going on, over a pair of pants. People's lives have been ruined, and this a-hole Pearson hasn't even been fired yet. Not to mention all of the money that is being wasted by this "pantsuit."

I think it's safe to say that we should not allow the residents of DC to vote, much less breed, for at least another generation. Then we'll see where we stand. Maybe by then this dry cleaning trial will be over.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Empty Nest Syndrome

Our friends, the Colvins, have been staying with us for two weeks or so. But today they moved out to live in a summer cottage / apartment until their new house is built. Most times when you've either been away from home or had someone living with you for a while, it's good to once again have the place to yourself, but today I just feel all empty inside.

I have empty nest syndrome.

It doesn't make it any easier knowing that Betty will be away with her family for an entire day without me. What will I do?! I guess I'll work. It's either that or raid the pantry of all the tree bark I can stomach.

And Vern's gone... he's probably out waxing some sweet turtle shell right now. Nobody here to play with ol' Bob.

So in order to entertain myself I've been YouTube'ing monkeys. Here are the videos that have helped to mask my feelings of loneliness and depression. Enjoy.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ksb7yb0njkg


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sshbHTDSwCk


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZ_mAkIZyqU


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gteEe1d-rQo


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsAf5LoD1m0


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BR4JMyTdd-8

Monday, June 11, 2007

The Man with the Rubber Glove

I always get frisked at the airport. It doesn't matter if I'm just there to meet someone getting off a plane - airport security guards see me and immediately get the urge to frisk me. I'm frisktastic! Friskalicious! Friska... okay you get the point.

But this week I'm really screwed. I'm actually pretty sure that I'm going to be setting off at least 4 or 5 red alerts in New Orleans' airport. I'm telling you, the security guards at Louis Armstrong Airport are going to frisk me so thoroughly that I'll walk with a limp for at least a week.

Here's the dealio:

Betty's uncle Jay moved from Brazil to Atlanta a while back, and this weekend we are all going to his house to have a huge party in his and his wife's honor. Betty is driving up with her family sometime this week, but I'm flying out on Thursday night.

One cool thing about getting to fly up there is that I won't have to sit still in a car for 10 hours. Another good piece of news is that my beautiful and loving wife is going to bring all of my luggage with her, so I won't have to haul anything. Isn't she sweet?

Although I am flying up to Atlanta, I am riding back home with Betty's family.

So to sum this up: a single white male with a weird last name and bushy eyebrows is going to be flying on a one way flight to an international airport with no luggage. I can just see the cavity search coming.

Hey, it's not my fault! I have to work! It's not like I want to be frisked!

Even if I bring my own luggage, I think I'm still a prime candidate for a good probing. The security guards will probably ransack my luggage, and then nothing will fit back into the bag, plus I'll get dirty looks from the other passengers for the entire flight. I bet I won't get any peanuts on the plane, either. And of course I'll have to sit on one of those pillows that are useful if you break your tail bone.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens. But just remember, when you think you have problems and your life is tough, think of me and the man with the rubber glove.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

The Return of Vern!

We went to check on our beloved turtle Vern this weekend, and boy has he grown!

While we were visiting with our young turtle-son, a house cat from a nearby neighborhood decided that Vern would make a tasty treat. Now I was all for kicking this cat's furry butt right into the creek, but Betty said to wait and see what Vern did. I'm so protective, so it was hard to sit back and not be a helicopter parent, but afterwards I was so proud that my little turtle boy has become a turtle man.

It was lucky for us that we had our camera! Here is Vern in all his glory, kicking ass and taking names.


Click for video of Vern going berserk

After watching Vern kick Garfield's ass, I wanted to compare my little bud's performance against other types of interspecies animal fighting. Here are some other interesting / amazing videos I found. It only took countless hours of loafing around to find these videos. And to think, I could have wasted that time by doing yardwork or helping around the house!


Rabbit vs. Snake


Click for video of Rabbit vs. Snake


Battle at Kruger: Lions vs. Buffalo vs. Crocodiles


Click for video of a battle royale b/w various animals


I guess staying at the Tanory household taught Vern a thing or two about survival. Maybe next time Vern will stick around long enough to finish his tea and vittles.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Soy Makes You Gay (But Not Me)

It's official, kind of: Eating soy makes you gay. Well, okay, not gay so much but definitely more feminine. You need proof? You doubt the Tantrum?

Soy contains stuff called phytoestrogens that are basically absorbed and processed by your body as though it were regular-ass estrogen. And the more estrogen you have, the more of a girly man you will become.

"So what?" you may be saying. "I don't eat all that much soy."

Not yet you don't. But processed and refined foods have been under attack for a long time, and soy is so versatile - there's soy in bean form, soy milk, tofu, Soylent Green, etc - that soon it will infiltrate all of American's favorite foods.

And is there really anything wrong with being feminine? Not at all. That is, of course, unless you like women - then you're pretty much screwed.

Of course, there are those out there who say that eating soy is just fine, and even some who say that eating soy will not make you gay. But we will ignore these people and their so-called "facts" because I want someone to tell me that eating pizza at every meal is the best possible diet one can have. Down with diet food, up with glistening grease on a freshly-baked pizza pie! If I don't have to diet then I don't have to eat soy, is my point.

So if you are going to continue to eat and/or drink soy products, and if you are a man or were a man at one point before you started eating soy, you may want to do something while you eat to help you stay manly while enjoying your favorite feminine soy food. May I suggest opening your edamame with a saw?

Friday, June 08, 2007

Live After Five

Friday night we went to "Live After Five" in downtown Baton Rouge. It was probably the only time I've seen that many people in Baton Rouge, all in one place, other than at the levees for 4th of July or stuck in Baton Rouge traffic on any given day.

My favorite part of going downtown was the people-watching. For example, there was this 70 year-old man who was pimping it out on the dance floor. This dude danced with a different lady during every song. In one song, he danced too hard in one direction and fell down. But like the strong, sturdy, drunken man-beast he was, he hopped right on up and found another lady to shake his legs at. I can only hope that I am that virile when I am his age.

Also, there was an older lady wearing a very short skirt, flashing her junk all over the place and flirting with several young men. Come to think of it, there were a lot of really old, horny people at Live After Five.

People watching is definitely a lot of fun. In fact, I think people are so upset about Paris Hilton going back to jail because she is the one person that everyone can people-watch in harmony. Seriously, she has no redeeming qualities, is totally useless, and her life is basically half train wreck / half sex tape. Her job title is "socialite." She could die in jail and nobody would really care - everyone would just wonder what Lindsey Lohan was wearing. Paris is just asking to be people-watched, and the law has deprived us of this.

Paris Hilton brings us together.

Anyway, afterwards we went to Serrano's, where I was able to completely ignore the chips, salsa, and flour tortillas and just eat grilled chicken, scrimps, and a side of steamed veggies. I can't wait to hit my target weight on my diet, so I can start eating crap again.

Oh yeah, and happy birthday, Pop! You know what birthdays and anniversaries are for - I hope you made me a little brother or sister so I'll be one step closer to defeating my Middle Child Syndrome.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Parental Small Talk

I'm turning into my parents.

I just got off the phone with my wife, who is on the way home, and told her to "be careful." Like she wasn't planning on being careful until I said something about it. I should win a humanitarian award!

Parents have a weird way of saying something enough times to drill it into their kids' head, and soon it's just a reflex, an indication that the conversation is winding down.

It's like passing someone in the hall at work. They see you, you see them, and you know you have to acknowledge them in some form. It's inevitable. You look down and around until you come within speaking distance, look each other in the eye, and one person says, "What's up?" and the other person says, "How's it going?"

My parents are really cool people, but they're still parents, so they still give me the rundown every now and again: remember to shower, iron your clothes before work, stop, drop and roll if you are sideswiped by a burning car. Don't forget to use your windshield wipers. Call home. And be careful!

And yet, somehow this exchange of small talk is important, because if the person passing you in the hall doesn't acknowledge you, you start thinking, "You son of a bitch! You think you're too good for me? Acknowledge me!"

You can tell that this small talk works, because you can spot the people whose parents never told them this stuff. For example...

The woman in the car applying her make-up while driving - I want to talk to and/or punch her parents.

The guy who looks and acts like Dwight Schrute - you know who you are, and you know what's coming.

Our parents' small talk is said so many times that it becomes ingrained into our minds. It is passed from parent to child as though it were a part of our genetic makeup.

But my wife just got home, so I guess what I said helped. Let me go ask her. And if it worked, I'm going to milk this for all it's worth.

MIT Students Create Wireless Power, Still Can't Get Laid

I love MIT. They've brought us a lot of cool things, like GPS, fax machines, artificial skin, Doppler radar, Technicolor, and most recently, wireless power.

That's right, wireless power.

Those genii at MIT made a 60-watt light bulb glow by sending it wireless energy from a device 7 feet away. Think of the possibilities!

The AP said that this new finding could potentially herald "a future in which cell phones and other gadgets get juice without having to be plugged in."

Juice? Excuse me, AP, but we're talking about power, not freshly squeezed orange juice, which I am not allowed to have in this phase of my diet. (Down 2.5 lbs!)

Besides, the AP, is thinking too short-term. I like to think long-term, like being able to shoot wireless energy missiles from tiny devices on my fingers or wearing glasses that could cook a burger by just looking at it.

I guess I could have already done that by using mirrors to reflect the sun's rays or by using a laser device. Hmm....

But this technological breakthrough brings up a good point: What if the guys at MIT could actually get laid? There would be no technological wonders, that's for sure - they'd all be too busy getting jiggy with their female biomedical engineering teachers. Let's keep women away from MIT, and keep the technology coming!

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

The Sonoma Diet

I'm on a diet.

For real this time.

I'm on the Sonoma Diet, which is the Mediterranean Diet on crack. Actually, the main difference between the Sonoma Diet and the Mediterranean Diet is that, on the Sonoma Diet, you only eat food that you can buy in Sonoma Valley. This diet is basically a marketing tool for Sonoma farmers.

But I don't mind - it's actually pretty tasty. You can eat all kinds of stuff, especially stuff with large chunks of tree bark in it. And after a week and a half of pure agony I'll be able to eat fruits - yea fruits! I can even still eat pizza if I leave out the toppings, cheese, white bread and tomato sauce, leaving only garlic and whatever herbs and spices are available. Maybe licking the still-hot pizza pan will burn my taste buds, leaving me able to indifferently eat foods that I would normally not like.

Actually, my diet plan is basically not eating the stuff that I would normally eat, like cakes, brownies, cookies, foods high in fat and sugar, etc, and to eat foods that I would normally not eat, like eggplant (a cross between a Brussels sprout and a very naughty rooster), bran (aka, Colon Blow), and green, leafy vegetables.

But the joy of having a blog is that I will not suffer through this alone... I am going to mark my progress through this diet with random pictures of me with no clothes on. Oh, all right, I'll wear spandex and a cape and call myself the Super Dieter, have it your way! (Now I'm hungry for Burger King.)

Here is my official "Pre-Diet Picture" of me weighing in at 185 lbs.

Click for Pre-Diet Picture

Monday, June 04, 2007

Schlitterbahn-bahn

This weekend we went to Schlitterbahn, the uber-water park, in Galveston, TX. Betty has been talking about going to Schlitterbahn for a long time, and I figured that Galveston couldn't be as bad as Houston on a regular day. I mean, it's Galveston, how bad could it really be?

So we schlitted over there down I-45. On the way we went through three tollbooths on the Beltway and saw 45 billboards for "We Buy Ugly Houses.com." There are either a lot of really ugly houses in Texas, or someone just really loves bad architecture.

You may be asking yourself, "Myself, when is the best time to go to a water park in Texas?"

There are several possibilities. You could go during the week, but if you work then you'll have to take the day off. You could go on a Saturday and wait in line FOREVER, with some fat dude's wet wedgie staring you in the face while you wait on the stairs.

Or you could do like the Tanory family and go Sunday morning, bright and early, while all of the God-fearing Texans are at church. Glory to God!

The Galveston Schlitterbahn is the newest Schlitterbahn water park, and since it's the only one I've been to, I am here to tell you that it is also the most awesome. We walked right in on Sunday morning at 10 am, rode every ride (some twice), and only stood in line once. And, like the rest of Texas, everything was bigger and better, from the fake boobies floating out of bikini tops in the Lazy River to the 7 new slides in the 70,000 square-foot Wasserfest area.

("Wasserfest" means "waterproof," which is fitting since Wasserfest was an indoor area. Did I mention you learn German in Schlitterbahn? "Schlitterbahn" means "slippery road" in German, but we usually call it "the Atchafalaya Basin.")

Anyway, we had a great time at Schlitterbahn in Galveston, and we now plan on going to the original Schlitterbahn in New Braunfels, TX. Because, I mean, it's not like we're going to find a water park around Baton Rouge.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Baby Showers and Laser Tag

My brother's wife is preggers, so this weekend we made our way to Houston for a baby shower. The women-folk stayed for the shower, and since I despise showers (with our without soap), us men went to do something manly:

Shoot each other with lasers.

I work right next door to Laser Tag with Baton Rouge, but it's not open during the day so I never get to play. I would probably pump a good 10-12% of my bi-weekly salary into Laser Tag if it was open during the day, so I guess I shouldn't complain. But this has left a hole in my heart - a hankering to shoot light amplified by stimulated emissions of radiation at a complete stranger. Yes, I am mature.

I don't know if you've ever played Laser Tag before, but one of the first things, and arguably the hardest, is to give yourself a codename. There are so many good codenames to choose from, like Blade, Laser, and Blazer, and you've got to stand out if you want to intimidate the competition. We played two games, and we switched our codenames up in between games to throw off our competition. Here was our team's stats:

Player 1: My brother Todd
Game 1 Codename: Karatechop
Game 2 Codename: Perry 1

Player 2: My dad, Dicky Boy
Game 1 Codename: STUD
Game 2 Codename: TZ (a homonym for the Arabic word for "butt")

Player 3: Our good friend Brad Bertrand
Game 1/2 Codename: Big-Bird

Player 4: The Tanory Tantrum
Game 1 Codename: Bertrain (I tried to be Bertrand, after Brad Bertrand, but the Laser Tag dude couldn't spell it)
Game 2 Codename: Perry 2

The first game was us vs. 11 black kids ages 10-14. I came in first (O'Doyle rules!), which wasn't very hard to do considering the other kids were roaming the futuristic landscape as a pack, yelling and stomping around and generally making themselves a fine target.

The second game was us vs. 31 white kids from the burbs. I have to tell you, these young white kids were really little bastards. They were cussing and making snide comments, and on more than one occasion I "accidentally" knocked a kid upside the head with my laser blowtorch. But for all their talk, every kid except one was defeated by the powers of Team Tanory: Perry 1 came in second and Perry 2 came in third.

For once, Houston was kinda fun. But barely.

Tomorrow we're heading to Schlitterbahn, we're I'm going to get my Schlitz and Giggles in the lazy river.

Pre-Father's Day 2007

Father's Day is coming up on June 17th. In honor of my father and your's - and who knows, it could be the same person - I have made a special Father's Day shirt, exclusively available through the Tantrum (and Zazzle.com):

Baby Daddy: the Shirt

Click to see the Baby Daddy shirt

Also, if your dad is like mine then he is pretty rad! So get him a Rad shirt as well:

Click to see the Rad shirt

I think I made the "Rad" a little high, but anyone who wears a shirt that says "Rad" is probably not as concerned with where the text is aligned.

Finally, if your dad is in fact my dad, then he's Caucasian. He might even be the Caucasian Sensation for all I know. So why not make this Father's Day a trifecta from the Tantrum and get him the Caucasian shirt - the Whitest shirt on the Internet!

Click to see the Whitest shirt on the Internet!

Of course, if you don't get your dad anything, you can always send him the link to this post and tell him, "You see, it could have been worse - I could have gotten you those!"