The Lowest Form

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I love puns.  Wait–let me rephrase.  I love smart puns.  Word play is typically my go-to daily comedy routine.  My mind is programmed to listen to the world around me and make allusions in order to get a smile or a playful jab in the arm.  Bottom line, I’m a dork.  Worse…a word dork. 

I have often wondered how well I would have done as a stand-up comedian.  In interviews, professional joke-tellers tend to agree that the life is just slightly above miserable with only a brief dance with fame if a certain bit gets wheels.  I feel like it would be one of those careers that sound completely awesome but I would be frustrated and ready to quit after a few shakes of the heads from buzzed night club goers.

Then again, I do stand-up a lot in my classroom.  The jokes are usually only funny to me and the one person who is alert enough to “get it.”  Who doesn’t likea funny teacher though?  We’ve probably all had teachers who were all business and completely out of touch with the world beyond their 15×15 corner of the universe.  Here’s an example of something I told Katy I wanted to say on the first day this year.

Random stranger student:  I heard you give lots of homework.

Me:  Hey, I just met you.  And this is crazy.  But you heard ri-ight.  Now don’t be lazy!

It’s beyond cheesy/corny, but it’s what I do.  I know it’s not comedic gold.  It’s my way to communicate with people.  One of my favorite jokes is from an episode of Night Court where the guy on trial was running an upbeat funeral parlor.  He wanted to put the “fun” back in funeral.  A family member of a recently deceased was deeply troubled by a bumper sticker attached to the casket that read “I’d Rather Be Breathing.”   

I’m smiling now just re-telling that joke from over twenty years ago! 

So my preferred brand of humor may be considered a lowly form of comedy.  I like other kinds, but I think funny can happen without resorting to disturbing, explicit imagery. 

Well, that’s it for me.  I’m off to shit in my dog’s mouth.

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Blogging is for…[fill in the invisible blank]

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Okay.  Confession time.  I’ve had friends who have posted their blogs and have hoped/expected me to read them.  I admit that I haven’t. I’m a terrible friend, but that’s not exactly news to anyone who knows me or is reading this.  In the old days, people who truly wanted their voices heard were limited to the grueling process of being published by actual reputable publication houses or men’s room stalls.  This is no longer the case.  Men don’t carve their innermost thoughts above the toilet paper roll anymore.  At least, not at the only public restroom I’d ever utilize–my hometown Panera Bread.  People who have the time and wherewithal to write anything (and who are not under contract with Simon and Schuster or the like) have become bloggers, a term that sounds a little dirty to me.  For the longest time, I’ve felt that people who have resorted to blogging (ew!) have perhaps felt a little too proud of their writing ability.  I’m writing today to admit that I have based this analysis on exactly zero hard evidence.  Thus, I suck.

So, I’ll ask you, fearless reader:  Do bloggers tend to focus primarily on themselves and their pets and/or children?  Do they “whine” about getting mosquito bites, forgetting to buy gas before the most recent price hike, or other white-people problems?  I wouldn’t know (see paragraph 1).

The only restitution I can offer is to go back in Internet time and read those blogs I should have read.  It only seems respectful and fair.  I don’t want to be hypocritical.  I’d actually prefer never to be compared to a hippo either.

And THAT’S why I’ve given up soda!

For a month.

Which is the true focus of today’s blog.  Soda.  I was indirectly forced/coerced to delete soda from my daily diet about six years ago when I had gastric bypass surgery.  Most people know what that is, but I’m going to lay out the medical details for the uniformed anyway.  Why?  Because this is my MF-in’ blog!

Seriously:  It’s when a “doctor” puts chloroform over your mouth and six months later you’re skinnier than before.

So I gave up soda because I was warned the contents of such would “kill” me.  Much like death but worse, is what one nurse said.   Of course, a lot of things can kill us.  Cigarettes, buses, UFC fighting.  But we continue to engage anyway.  For some reason though, I took this warning to heart and went about sixteen months, three weeks, and four days without tasting soda.  Then I drank a coke, and I felt what some women refer to as an “orgasm.”  If I knew my (or anyone else’s) Bible, I’d make a connection to the Adam and Eve-apple story at this point.   Wait!  Is there a connection to the Apple icon and the Bible?  Hello, next Blog topic!!!

I started drinking soda off and on, but my arm got tired so I limited it to when it was only available on.  It was around this point that I discovered a liking for coffee.  Then frappucinos.  Later, iced coffee.  Now I try to drink all three simultaneously so I can get to my next free coffee at Starbucks even faster.

Speaking of which, I can’t believe I’m writing this at my HOME and not at a STARBUCKS.  Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for blogging after all.

Crap!  Damn mosquitoes….

Unsolicited Advice to my Unborn Son

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This will be a list in progress.  It will consist of the things I think of as they happen/occur to me so I never forget.  Thankfully, the Internet is an excellent substitute for my short-term memory.  Thanks, Internet. 

1.  Never trust anyone who tells you he/she has “an incredible offer.” 

2.  Cross-contamination is a real thing and when cooking, you need to wash everything all the time.  Constantly.

3.  If your boxers hang above your pants line at a measurable level, I will disown you and you’ll have to live with one of your two creepy uncles.

4.  Country music blows.

5.  I never understood the concept of gutters either, but you should probably get them when you actually buy a house. 

6.  Same with guest towels.

7.  Let the charcoal cook for a while.  You’re not on television, and no one wants to interrupt a perfectly good meal with a trip to the ER only to have an overweight nurse tell you your eyebrows have been permanently singed. 

8.  Oil changes are really okay longer than 3K miles.  I’m not conspiracy theorist, but I know it’s not going to ruin your car if you go over that much.

9.  Wear gloves when you do yardwork.  I know it’s not manly, but even if you work for six seconds, you’re my son.  Thus, you’re bound to find the poison ivy.

10.  Stretch.  

I will continue this list later.  My pork chops are done.

Moving

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Katy and I recently moved to a new apartment.  It was not the first time we had moved, but it was the first time we had moved while she was eight-and-a-half months pregnant.  The last week has motivated me to write a book for future first-time dads who are stupid enough to time a move-in at this very late stage of pregnancy.  Not a huge batch of future readers, but it’s probably more than the number of people who have purchased my other book 101 Ways to Stub Your Toe. 

As anyone with a pulse already knows, one learns an enormous amount about loved ones, strangers, and other idiots during the moving process.  To nutshell this for those of you who are reading this while in the restroom, I’ll tell you I’ve learned that I am very good at sweating and putting boxes in the wrong place.  Furthermore, I mastered the craft of stepping on fallen nails I’ve missed in the process of putting up simple wall hangings.  If anyone out there needs someone to suggest absolutely ridiculous arrangements of furniture, televisions, beds, spoons, clocks, keys, and hats….I’m your man.

Katy took in a lot about my abilities as a so-called “man” as well over the past seven days.  Men have their own set of rules–perhaps a lousy term for it would be the Manstitution.  We know looking weak sucks.  We are quick to judge other adult males who wander around home improvement stores based solely on what they happen to be carrying on their shoulder and/or the size of their squeaky metal cart with two-by-fours (whatever those are).  We desperately want other big, tough men to help us move, but we would usually prefer never to help another guy; that is, unless the possibility of a flower show or jewelry trunk show has been recently brought up over dinner.

As for this guy, I’m glad to say the move is all but done.  I have just a few more paintings to re-hang.  Let me just finish putting on this Dora band-aid…