Haha
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Extended Chants for 5 Minnesota Twins
Denard Span
Spaaaaaan… There’s a reason you don’t play in Japaaaaaan… I assume it was a mostly logistical decision because Japanese work permits are notoriously difficult to procuuurrre…
Spaaaaaan… better than Staaaaaan… that is to say that Denard is both a better ballplayer and human being than my asshole stepfather Staaaaaan…
Jason Kubel (Not Too Far Removed, Yet)
Kuuubeeel… You’re worth every Ruuubeeel… If we were to pay you in Russian currency that iiisss…
Michael Cuddyer (Forever A Twin in My Heart)
Cuuudddy… You’re my buuudddy… by that I mean that while we don’t know each other personally I am knowledgeable of intimate details of your life because I’m stalking you and think we would make good friiieeends…
Ryan Doumit
Doooumiiit… Not afraid to cooomiiit… To hitting balls that is… I have no idea about your personal life but I can only assume you have less relationship trouble than myseeelllf… Namely sub-conciously self-sabotaging relaaationshiiips…
Alexi Casilla
Casiiillaaa… You’re definitely not vaniiillaaa (pronounced vuh-knee-uh)…unlike my sex life which has definitely gotten more tame since my wife and I decided to have kiiiiiids…
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An E-mail From My Stepfather
Dear Michael,
Hi. How are you? I’m great, but you knew that. How could I not be? I’m fucking Scottie Pippen. You know what I did last week? I took your mother to Barbados. We stayed at Rihanna’s place. You know Rihanna, right? Or, are you one of those ignorant faux-progressive hipsters who only listen to stuff on vinyl I saw so much of during my time in Chicago? I sure as hell hope not. I don’t think your mother could take it. Speaking of what the kid’s have become your sister is doing great. She’s parlayed her track scholarship and her graduating with honors into a 150k a year job. I don’t want to say I’m disappointed in your lack of success – I want to be the best stepdad I can be, after all – but, I wish you had a competitive drive. The only competitive drive you ever felt was the drive to eat all the Whoppers before the rest of the family when we went to the movies. Remember seeing “Gladiator?” That was a great fucking movie, but it would have been better with a little malted milk confectionery goodness to go with my fizzy Coke. But, I’m being negative. That’s not my bag. I’m Scottie Pippen.
I got your request. I’m sorry. I can’t loan you $100. It’s your fault you overdrafted. I can’t bail you out anymore. If I did I wouldn’t be able to use the money I earned playing ball (I’m reffering to the millions I made playing basketball, FYI) for myself. 100 bones is a meal for one at Ditka’s. Ever been there? Killer shrimp. Hmmm… I just got a hankering for it, actually. Maybe I’ll swing by the place for lunch. It’s just a quick jaunt in the Learjet, and I can be back in Cleveland for dinner with your grandparents and your mother. They say hi, by the by. They’d call, but your phone was disconnected from lack of payment, so…
Anyway, keep plodding along. I’m sure you’ll move up the chain at Potbelly’s sometime soon. Just remember, thinking your great is half the battle. I mean, look at me. I’m Scottie Pippen.
May the 4th be with you.
(Step)Dad
P.S. Probably won’t be able to see you while I’m in town for lunch. But, I’ll fly over your apartment to make sure it’s not burning down.
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The Whoopee Cushion
This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever had to write at work as well as the funnest to work on:
“Oh, man, who cut the cheese?” “I did. It’s Cheddar. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you some.” “OK. [Fart Noise]” “Look who’s cutting the cheese now!” “Hahaha! Puns…” Bring back the classic gag with a Whoopee Cushion!
Friendly get-togethers and attempts to undermine authority have never been so hilarious! No magical fruits; just good ol’ fashion rubber-made toots! Whoopee Cushions are a right of passage for any kid. And this one is no different.
You could pull some fingers or eat some fiber, but nothing will beat the barrels of laughs you’ll get from this fantastic Whoopee Cushion!
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On Sighing A Lot
I’ve been sighing a lot. This is mostly due to me being a big bowl of regret lately. I can’t to stop thinking of different things I probably shouldn’t have done. I don’t necessarily think I would want to go back and change them, but in hindsight they are things I find unfortunate. Beating a kid up at my birthday party with a putt-putt club comes to mind, but I had anger issues at the time. I was 4.
It’s normally little things, though. For instance, one time - on my birthday (this might be pattern) - a woman gave me this glass to drink out of. It had no way to put it down, no rest. It was a champagne flute that came to a point. There’s no tension here. It broke within an hour. This is partly just dumb on her part. I mean, who gives a 20-year old male who is clearly headed for drunkenness a glass that he can’t pout down. But, at the same time, I really wanted to be able to do it. The glass had meaning to her and I did feel special that she would let me drink out of it. After I broke it, I remember writing her a letter in apology, which in hindsight was also a stupid thing to do and only made me (and her) embarrassed. But, embarrassment doesn’t bother me. It can’t. It’s a daily occurrence. If it bothered me I’d be dead by my own hand. Actually, probably not. I’m sure I would botch it, which would only add to my embarrassment. I wouldn’t allow myself to try again for fear of further embarrassment and I’d go on, a miserable soul.
This might all be tied to my fears of irresponsibility and failure. I’ve always been pretty responsible, so when I have moments of irresponsibility, immaturity, and irrational anger and what have you, I get sad. It effects me. Then I think about it too much and I go on with a slightly heavier heart. The small stuff especially. People forgive big stuff. It’s the little stuff. The small moments that don’t cut too deep and don’t hurt all that much, but then get infected and come to define your relationship with someone. I fear those moments. Often in one-on-one conversations with people I’ll be telling myself in my head “Don’t fuck this up.”
Most of the times I don’t, but I don’t remember those.
Jesus Christ. I thought I was done with Live Journal.
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Get back, Irene! I will not be flooded out of my home by some hurricane harpy! Honey, hand me the bailin’ bucket. Let’s toss some H2O.
— The intro of the listing for a flood detector that I wrote around the time of Hurricane Irene.
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A Thanksgiving Travel Diary
Travel Log – Day 1
My companions and I set out this fair morn. We make haste to leave our land before the dark times begin. Soon, millions of our brethren will be slaughtered, and we are powerless in all ways but to run. Unfortunately, being turkeys, we cannot run. We can only waddle clumsily.
I have taken it upon myself to document our migration to the wilds of Canada where, luckily, their Thanksgiving has passed. Why they have one I know not, but once I have the spare time to get into political activism, getting rid of Canadian Thanksgiving will be my first priority.
Travel Log – Day 5
We have made good headway since the incident, coming some 30 klicks in two days. The death of Steve has been good for the group. They have stopped gobbling endlessly and have focused their efforts on crossing the great tundra of Iowa. Mason City was trying, but on the whole a nice town with a relatively high standard of living. If I am to be reincarnated, as the great god Turquoise suggests, I should wish to live there. Alas, we must move in annoyingly optimistic direction of progress: forward.
As a group we must be more careful now that Halloween is over. No longer may we pass as small children or dwarves dressed as turkeys. The gun shot frequency is increasing daily and I fear they are not using buck shot, but the feared wattle shot; a bullet powerful enough to make a turkey ready for roasting. The initial impact will de-feather even the largest of turkeys. Inside the bullet are bread crumbs that instantly fill your innards with what I am told they – the humans – call stuffing, which they use to keep us moist. Bastards. I’m plenty moist as it is.
These humans are cruel beasts, to be sure. But, I find them fascinating nonetheless. They are not so different from us in many respects. Like us they eat much corn, though they often ingest it in the form of syrup. What’s more many of them are top-heavy – having necks like our own – and cannot fly. What they lack in fine feathering they make up for in bravado, something we turkeys have always struggled with. If I am to die, I suppose it would be honorable to die at the hands of one. But, I do not wish to die. For being eaten is my largest fear, a rational one, no matter what my psychiatrist says.
Now I must rest. It is late afternoon and the Hunters are now intoxicated, which means we are safe from harm.
