Monday, July 28, 2008

Applebee's Quesadilla Burgers

On our way to visit Betty's family in Atlanta we stopped at an Applebee's in Mobile, Alabama. I hadn't been to Applebee's in a few years, and so I was shocked and awed to see a very unique item on their menu:

A Quesadilla Burger.

What is a Quesadilla Burger? Well, imagine that a hardworking American cheeseburger meets a cute Latina quesadilla in a bar. They knock back a few drinks, make pleasantries, and before you know it, the meat of the cheeseburger is between the quesadilla's pillowy flour tortillas.

[Picture: How quesadilla burgers are made.]

Nine months later, a quesadilla / burger hybrid is born. Then eaten. Such is life.

The point of this blog post was mainly that I wanted to photoshop a picture of a man-burger humping a female quesadilla tart, and I think I've succeeded. I can't wait until inspiration hits again! Om nom nom nom nom!

Sunday, July 27, 2008

One Ring to Rule Them All

If there is one word to describe our trip to see Betty's family in Atlanta over the weekend, it is this:

Shrinkage.

It all started with a friendly game of pool volleyball. Normally I pride myself on my prowess within the pool, especially when playing in the shallow section, but in this particular match I was getting my ass handed to me. Imagine all of the things that you can't do without an ass, then picture yourself doing them in the pool. I'm sure that playing volleyball is tops on that list.

My opponent was worthy, and I was having to work extra hard to even return a volley. But I was letting my anger affect my play. I wanted to channel my emotions to improve my game, so midway through our third match I decided to take it up a notch.

My opponent hit a ball to my far left. I dove, looking like an overfed dolphin jumping out of the water, all the while stretching my arm out as far as it would go. I made contact with the ball, but unfortunately it was limited to the very top of my fingers. The weight of the ball stretched my fingers all the way back to the hand, and once the ball hit the water (sadly, on my side of the pool), my fingers snapped back into their proper place.

Here's where the shrinkage comes in: the force of my fingers snapping back into place propelled my wedding ring off of my shrunken finger and out into the backyard.

"Someone's ring just flew off!" I heard someone with a faint Canadian accent yell. "Did anyone lose a ring?"

I felt myself, then felt for my ring. Yes, it was I, I who could not hit the volleyball over the net but could apparently shoot my ring 400 feet foul to the right.

The ring flew into Betty's uncle's backyard, which just happened to slope down several hundred yards into a lake. My ring could be anywhere. I looked on the bright side: In order to get a new ring, Betty and I could get married again and go on another honeymoon. Then I looked on the down side: my wife was gonna kill me before that happened.

But there's a happy ending to this story: my opponent from the pool volleyball game found my ring. I then forfeited my game against him, which put him into the family tournament's final match, which he won. All thanks to me and my ring. And my shrinkage.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

I'm a Flintstones Kid

I used to start every day the same way: with a tasty and nutritious Spongebob Squarepants vitamin. Some days I would chew them, other days I would swallow them whole. One day I even dissolved a vitamin in my morning coffee. Yeah, you probably don't want to do that last one.

I always knew what kind of day I would have when I took my Spongebob vitamins. There were three possible characters to choose from, each with its own distinct flavor and daily horoscope. If I got a Sandy Cheeks vitamin then I knew I would sit on my butt for most of the day but would whup ass when it got to crunch time. If I got a Patrick Star vitamin then I would be a shining star at work, albeit a little dimwitted at times. And if fate dealt me a Spongebob then I would have an all-around awesome day and would absorb lots of knowledge.

But last week when Betty went to the store, the unthinkable happened: they were all out of Spongebob vitamins. Nooooooo!!!

Instead, Betty got me Flintstones. (She knows my sensitive stomach can only handle pizza, grease and children's vitamins.)

I'm slowly adjusting to my new vitamins. But whereas I knew what kind of day I would have with my old trusty Spongebob vitamins, there are 8 Flintstones characters to choose from - Fred, Wilma, Barney, Betty, Pebbles, Bam Bam, Dino and the Great Gazoo - and I have no idea what to expect from each.

Today was my first day of taking my new Flintstones and I got a Dino. "What kind of day will I have?!" I thought to myself. "I don't have enough data to know what type of trend to expect! I am totally unprepared!"

I tried to plan out my day by thinking about the character. Dino is the Flintstone's pet and is analogous to a dog. Would this mean I would have a dog day? Or would I feel the need to mark my cubicle as my territory? Or would I contract rabies and foam at the mouth while running SQL queries? There are too many unknowns!

I'm scared that if I get a Fred or a Barney then I'll forget to wear pants, or that I'll act like a child if I get a Pebbles or Bam Bam. And if I nab a Great Gazoo, I need to remember to bring my helmet for when I pop in and out of space/time. I have no idea what's in store for me if I get a Wilma or Betty.

Betty thinks I'm taking all of this too seriously. But I know I'm right because, as the saying goes, you are what you eat.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Gnome-man's Land

Back in April I wrote about my garden gnome, Gnome Chomsky. In that particular blog I gave a warning to the pet owners on my street - particularly to the people whose pets were urinating in my Knockout Roses - that they may want to invest in the female LSU Garden Gnome to try to divert Gnome Chomsky's attention away from their piddling pets. Otherwise, I warned them, who knows what my gnome might do to their pets. My gnome is bat shit crazy.

And as it turns out, someone did get me the female LSU Garden Gnome! Check it out!

[Picture: Hot Gnome Love]

Now, it could very well be that this female garden gnome, whom we call Gnomesha, was attracted to Gnome Chomsky based on his obvious attractive qualities, including his luscious beard, his fervor for LSU, and his large pointy hat. Or it could be that someone strategically placed Gnomesha in my garden specifically to distract Gnome Chomsky for the purposes of allowing their pet to urinate freely in my garden.

Either way, Gnome Chomsky's job performance has been severely affected by the presence of this female gnome tart. Just look at this turtle that snuck into the bushes and laid eggs in my Azaleas. This would have never happened pre-Gnomesha!

[Picture: Peeping Turtle]

The turtle's grin says it all, mainly that this turtle is a Peeping Tom. But I can't blame it - if I saw two gnomes getting it on in my back yard, it would be hard not to watch. My hundreds of hours of homemade back yard gnome porn speaks for itself.

So I guess the purpose of this blog post is to simply say be careful what you wish for - you just might get it. I wished for a female LSU Garden Gnome and got it, and now instead of having two guards for my garden, I have a 24/7 gnome peep show going on in my back yard.

[Picture: Close-up of the two Gnome love birds]

And to think, she looked so innocent on Amazon's website.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Smoke and Pheromones

On Thursday the patio I gave to my wife over the course of four years of marriage was slowly being taken over by bastard ant squatters. Betty noticed a small ant pile forming in the middle of our patio, and as Man of the House it was my job to thwart them. I only had ten minutes to kick ant ass and take names, because we were throwing a shower for our friend Kim that night and I still needed to change into my butler outfit.

I got out my jug of bug poison and sprayed the living crap out of the ant pile. Ants started pouring out and running around in circles, apparently taking evasive action. Some ants died, and others seemed unaffected. I squeezed my spray gun until my hand cramped up, then switched hands and sprayed the ants all the way to the back yard.

Afterward I set up some Citronella torches for the shower. When I was done, I noticed that the ants were making a strong comeback. But as luck would have it I had an extra ounce of torch fuel left. I decided that these ants were either going to burn in Hell for all eternity, or burn on my patio for the next five minutes. Either way, I was looking for an easy way to get rid of ants and mosquitoes at the same time.

I doused the ant pile with the remaining Citronella fuel and threw a match on it. It went up pretty quickly. Don't worry, the house and patio furniture were far enough away from the flaming river of ant corpses that we weren't at risk of burning down the house. But there was a slight moment of panic because I didn't take into consideration that the fuel would flow through the cracks of the patio's brick pattern. Lucky for me, the patio slopes to the back yard, which meant it burned through the path of ants like lava flowing down from a volcano.

I don't mean to brag, but it was awesome.

One tiny ant ran around on fire for a few seconds, trailing smoke and pheromones. I don't know whether its death should be attributed to the severe burns it sustained or because the fire sucked the oxygen from its tiny, bastard ant lungs, thus suffocating it. Either way, I felt the need to publicly humiliate it by picking its smoldering corpse up with a garden tool and throwing it into another ant pile I found in the back yard.

Yeah, ants, I'm talking to you. Go bug my neighbors. Or die in a flaming plume of Citronella fuel, your choice.

By the way, don't try this at home... unless ants are taking over your patio and your wife is yelling at you to do something - then maybe it's okay.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Butling Down the Hatch

We hosted a shower on Thursday for our good friend Kim. Well, Betty hosted it. I was the hired help, or as I asked to be known, the butler.

And what does a butler do, exactly? That's right! He butles!

[Picture: Bob the Butler]

But I didn't just butle. I also networked. While working I wore several name tags and advertisements that displayed my butling webpage, www.butlerbob.net, as well as my toll-free butling hotline, 1-866-BUTLE4U.

[Picture: Butler Bob - For All Your Butling Needs]

[Picture: Bob the Butler, the Advertisement]

I didn't mind butling. After all, my first job was as a bus boy at Bennigan's in Lafayette, and my second job was as a server at the Bennigan's in Baton Rouge. This experience primed me for a career in butling. For instance, I made sure to look everyone in the eye and smile when I welcomed them into our home, I brought everyone drinks and food on my fancy tray (and avoided spilling on anyone), and most importantly, I made sure to pre-bus at every opportunity.

I enjoyed being a butler so much that I am offering my services to anyone in need of a good butling. Clothing is optional (except for the bow tie, which is required of any butler), but prices may vary.

Spurrier Says He's Not Going Anywhere

Despite what you might have read on the Intarweb or heard on the radio, Steve Spurrier says he's not leaving the South Carolina Gamecocks football organization.

Spurrier dispelled several rumors about him leaving, saying simply, "If there's one thing most people know about me, it's that I'm a Cock. I repeat, I'm a Cock, through and through. Hell, I might be the biggest Cock there is."

When asked what organization Spurrier would join if he did leave the Gamecocks, Spurrier seemed irritated and shot back, "It's a moot point: I'm not going anywhere. All I want is to be immersed in this Cocks program. I love the Cocks, and if I can be around Cocks all my life then that would be Heaven. I eat, sleep and drink Cocks."

Spurrier has been a South Carolina Gamecock since 2004, but acknowledged, "I felt like I've been a Cock my whole life."

Friday, July 11, 2008

Cow Appreciation Day

Friday was Cow Appreciation Day at Chick-fil-A, which meant you got free food if you dressed as a cow. And as you all probably know by now, I always have my cow outfit ready to go in a moment's notice. So it was off to Chick-fil-A!

[Picture: Like father like daughter.]

My daughter Anne dressed as a calf, and since she technically can only eat via Mommy's happy fun bags, the Chick-fil-A on Siegen Lane gave Betty free food, too, so it could eventually make its way to Annie!

[Picture: Mini-Moo.]

We weren't the first cows on the farm, though. Another person beat us to the punch, but Betty cow-tipped her when she least suspected it. We then swooped in ahead of the herd.

The folks at Chick-fil-A took our picture. They especially loved Anne's outfit. They weren't so keen on me setting up an electric fence to keep other cows out, though.

[Picture: On location with the cows.]

Later that day I appeared in my I Love Ground Chuck shirt and sent Chick-fil-A into a wild panic. Fear me, domesticated ungulates! Bwahaha!

[Picture: I Love Ground Chuck - the shirt!]

So thanks, Chick-fil-A, for the free food! Hopefully next year more people will show their appreciation for cows by dressing up on this festivus miracle of all days.

Also, thanks to our good friend Jennifer R. for alerting us to Cow Appreciation Day! Jennifer, as my way of saying "Thank You," you get one free tug on the udders.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

A Shot of Love

Going to the doctor's office is always exciting in its own way. But today I got a little something extra that wasn't included in my insurance premium: I got hit on by the nurse.

Now I know what you're thinking: "A hot nurse that likes short, dumpy, married, nerdy, sick patients... Yahtzee!"

Well, not exactly.

I explained all of my symptoms to my doctor: sore throat, congestion, road rage, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and a nagging cough. He thought about it for a moment and said, matter of factly, "Sinus infection."

Damn you, sinuses! It's always you!

So he sent in the nurse to give me a shot. The nurse was a large, black, fat lady - just the kind I like. And the first words out of her mouth were, "Drop'm, Sweetheart."

Excuse me?

"Drop'm. I gotta give you a shot in the hip."

Apparently the nurse wanted me to take my pants off completely in order to give me a shot in the hip. Hey, I work in the health care field, and I know what this means.

I started to smooth the white paper on the little padded table and gently laid back, making sweet eyes at the nurse. She must have thought my groans were "sick groans" instead of "love groans," so I undid the top of my belt and slapped it against my belly a few times.

Hmm... maybe this is why Betty goes to bed 3 hours before I do?

Anyway, the nurse turned around at the sound of my belt-slapping, did a double-take, and said, "Or we could do it in the arm."

Oh yeah. I want to do it in the arm. I've been a sick little patient. Ooh yeah, stick that needle right... OUCH!

Long story short, I now have a prescription for Ceftin and a restraining order. Anybody know a good doctor?

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

The Tiger Woods of Mini Golf

My family has only a handful of traditions, but those traditions we have are fiercely adhered to: we dance the "pick the grape" dance at my dad's family reunions, we yell endlessly while touching the ceiling of our car whenever driving through the Mobile Tunnel, and we play Mini Golf whenever we're on vacation.

Mini Golf, or Putt Putt as it's sometimes known, may at first appear to be a game for small children or trolls, but in my family it becomes a full-contact sport. My family bets on everything, and the loser in Mini Golf always ends up being the family's butler for the rest of the trip. The person who is currently winning is also the person who is currently getting tripped up while putting or getting a 5-iron up the shorts on Hole 10. To put it simply, nobody in my family wants the shame and humiliation associated with losing at Mini Golf. We take our miniature sports seriously.

Over the years a pattern of play has emerged for each family member. For instance, my brother always starts off strong but ends up goofing around if he knows he's going to lose. My sister always starts off strong, gets flustered around the windmill (usually hole 12), goes on a roid rage and hits a 5 on the next two holes, and then finally picks it up a notch towards the end. I usually suck continuously and evenly throughout the entire game, but somehow always manage to end up in second.

That leaves my mom and dad. One of them always wins, and the other always ends up being our butler for the week. So us kids always try to aggravate the living crap out of them while they're playing, knowing that the only chance we have to win is to mess them up when there's "too much green" between them and the hole.

But this year I had extra help. My dad opted to play while holding my daughter Anne, and by Hole 17 Anne had decided that my dad was doing too well. But instead of aggravating the living doodoo out of him, she decided simply to doodoo on him.

How my dad managed to get a "2" on Hole 17 with poop dripping down his arm and leg is beyond me. He eventually won by a single stroke, and now we all have to bow down to His Excellency for the rest of the trip.

The funny thing is, once my wife realized that Anne had to be changed, her hormones took control and she turned into a Mini Golf master. She hit a hole-in-one on Hole 17 and finished up her round with a "2" on Hole 18. Those were by far her two best shots, and she did it all while in Mom Overdrive Mode. Her body did whatever it could to get her out of there as quickly as possible. It was amazing!

And for that, I hereby name my wife the Tiger Woods of Mini Golf.

Monday, July 07, 2008

Rednecks on the Beach

Today we met some rednecks on the beach. And when I say "rednecks" I don't mean people who were sitting out in the sun for too long sans sunscreen. No, these were what we in Louisiana would call coon-asses, except they had non-Louisiana accents, and they had none of the fun qualities that most Louisiana coon-asses possess. And let me tell you, if there wasn't a lower class then these people wouldn't have any class at all.

Our new acquaintances were like the four women from Sex and the City, only 40 years older. All they talked about was sex, who was or wasn't gay, how drunk they were/are/want to be, and how much money someone would have to pay them for various sexual favors. I vomited a little in my mouth after hearing that last one. What made matters worse was that there were families with small children all around these four vulgar women, and you could just tell that every father was thinking about how much trouble he would get in if he strangled just a single one of these old hags in the ocean.

"Sorry Officer," a father might say, "but I was just teaching my children how to make a crab trap using only an old, crusty, vulgar woman. See how many crabs we've already caught? The crabs are attracted to the color red, and this woman's red neck just fit the bill."

The sound of the ocean waves must have been interfering with the old women's hearing aids' amplification, because they felt the need to YELL EVERYTHING TO EACH OTHER even though they were only sitting two feet from each other.

"THAT POKEY," one of the old ladies yelled, "HE'S SUCH A COCKSUCKER MOTHERLOVER." I'm cleaning it up a bit, in case you couldn't tell. "BUT I'D SURE LET HIM GIVE IT TO ME UP MY YOOHOO IF HE'D BE ABLE TO GET IT UP."

I couldn't take it anymore. Even though my three month-old daughter was up in our condo being tended to by my parents, I still felt like the protective father who needed to whup someone's ass to make a point. But I didn't want to make any waves with these people by simply asking them to clean it up a bit, because I knew that wouldn't work. So on to Plan B.

While the women were babbling on about their past sexual exploits, I set up shop right in front of them and started building what appeared to be a sand castle. Every few minutes I would run off to the ocean and bring water back to my little sand pile, each time eying the old vultures whenever I made my run back to my encampment. They never noticed me or my castle - apparently their eyesight was as bad as their hearing. I stayed for about twenty minutes and lovingly packed the sand into two small mounds and one banana-shaped, mushroom-tipped protrusion.

As we left I heard someone bitching out the old women, not for their foul language but for the four foot sand penis and balls jutting out of the sand right in front of them. I smiled as I trudged up the shore to the hotel, thinking, "Yeah, that's right, I got you and your evil brethren. Booyah!"

I felt great until I heard, "IF POKEY'S WAS THAT BIG I'D LET HIM DO ANYTHING HE WANTS!" Oh well. If I see them tomorrow I'll just cough on them, assuming I'm still feeling sick tomorrow.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Life of Pi

We're at the beach this week and we all have beach books. Mine is "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" by David Sedaris, because nothing says the beach quite like a book with a skeleton smoking a cigarette on its cover.

My sister is reading "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel. I haven't read "Life of Pi" but it got 3.14 stars on Amazon so it must be good. I've been reading over my sister's shoulder for the past two days, but I can only see the left page due to my shoddy vantage point. I also occasionally miss a word or two whenever a woman in a skimpy bikini struts by. Anyway, here's what I've been able to find out about the book so far:

The "Pi" mentioned in the book's title is the first name of one "Pi Patel." Mr. Patel is an Indian guy who owns a hotel and doesn't like curry. I know what you're thinking: What!? An Indian person who doesn't like curry? That can't be true... could it?

Pi's family owns a zoo and tries to move their animals from India to somewhere else (the unknown destination was on the right page, which I couldn't see), but along the way their boat explodes in a towering pyre of animal flesh, leaving Pi alone on a boat with a tiger. Since Pi ultimately survives the book (or so we assume), then we know that the tiger in question wasn't an Auburn Tiger, otherwise Pi would have thrown himself overboard somewhere around page 10.

I'm not sure of the details of Pi's survival, but I suspect it has something to do with his explicit knowledge of the Karma Sutra and the tiger's willingness to try new things. This also might explain why only two entities were on the boat in the beginning, but three land at Plymouth Rock and give smallpox to the natives. Or maybe I'm confusing the plot line with something else....

Either way, the next time you're at the beach I highly recommend reading either "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" or "Life of Pi." Or you could swim around in the ocean, since you can read any other day of the year but are only at the beach every once in a while.

Saturday, July 05, 2008

Beach Bums

We've been celebrating Independence Day by spending a week at Gulf Shores, because nothing says "Thank You" to our founding fathers like watching girls in skimpy American Flag bikinis getting their tops blown off by a tsunami-like wave.

Thanks, founding fathers!

My daughter turned 3 months old on July 4th, so we dressed her up like George Washington and told her that her noonie was a symbolic version of the Red Coats. She suckled those dang Torries to death! Afterwards, while surverying the beach from our tenth-storey window we spotted someone wearing Union Jack swimming trunks down by the pool, so I dumped a piping hot bowl of chili off the balcony and made him run for cover.

USA! USA! USA!

I would be down at the beach soaking up some sun instead of writing a blog, but unfortunately I'm sick. This always happens to me: I finally get to unwind from a stressful year at work only to have my immune system totally puss out. Dang you, leukocytes! Man up!

Well, I guess I should at least try to get my vitamin D by laying out by the ocean. I just hope the guy I poured chili on isn't still waiting downstairs for me.