Going Off Half Cooked ( Originally Written in June 2008)
Children are funny things. If you have one or more there is a certain mental state you must achieve not unlike a seasoned combat veteran. The sight of bodily fluids including blood, excrement, vomit, and mucous must not faze you at all. Those with children know that all of these things are apt to appear at the worst possible times. When these events occur, the responsible adult, or in my case an adult that sometimes acts like a child, must act as if it is a normal, every day event and go about taking care of the situation.
You can always recognize the rookies. Whenever their kids do something, they just fall apart. Little Billy eats a bug and they are on the phone with poison control while measuring out the ipecac. The seasoned parent will look at the child and ask, “So how was it?” Which the child will then admit wasn’t as great as they thought it would be. A younger child who has not yet learned to speak might answer this same question with a burp.
I still remember one of the greatest examples of the seasoned parent I ever saw. I was about 16 at the time and my brother and I were staying at a friend’s house from another part of the county. Like us, he lived on a farm which is the perfect place for boys to get into all sorts of mischief. My buddy came up with this great idea for a little fun.
He had a pile of old spray paint cans that were partially filled but either because of a missing spray nozzle, missing a label, or just being too clogged up no longer functioned. So this friend, my little brother, and I started to have some fun. We would set the spray paint can on fire and then shoot it with a BB gun to make it explode. Of course we were smart enough to stand back behind an old engine block or car hood they had behind their shop before firing away. Safety first, I always say!
We set the first can out on the lawn behind the barn for a test run. We found that by putting it half way in a paper bag and lighting the bag on fire, we would have a strong enough flame to light the high pressure contents. The first can was mostly empty and spun around with some minor flames when we punctured it with the BB gun. It was somewhat entertaining but like Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor, we decided what we needed was more power.
About this time, his dad was out in the front yard talking to some Mormon missionaries. It was dark out and they were just chatting away when suddenly the night sky lit up as a large fireball came up in the sky over the barn roof. My friend’s dad had his back turned to the event but the missionaries saw the full show and exclaimed rather loudly, “Whoa, what was that??!!!!!” As quickly as it had happened the sky went dark again and the next thing we heard was our friend’s dad telling my brother and me to go into the house and strait to bed. In my mind, I could hear taps playing as we ran into the house knowing full well that we would never see our friend again.
About 10 minutes later he came into the house and got into his sleeping bag beside us. It was a great relief to us knowing that we would not be involved in his disappearance and any subsequent cover up. Would we have been questioned by the authorities? Would they have brought out the dogs to search for our friend? We can only speculate now.
We all lay in our sleeping bags without saying a word. It was quieter than a grave yard as we sat there waiting for his dad to come into the house and go to his own room. As soon as the dad’s door was shut, I asked my friend how big a trouble we were in. We were all on pins and needles wondering what sort of horrible punishment from the Spanish Inquisition awaited us, and also the ultimate fate of our friend whose past activities had resulted in some very punitive correction.
He began slowly and quietly in his description of what happened after we were sent inside. It was as if he wanted to make sure we understood the events that unfolded perfectly the first time. He then went on to tell us that the first thing his dad had said to him was, “Well was it neat?” I guess the dad had missed the whole thing with his back turned and by the time he had turned around the show was over. He had then talked to my friend about not doing that when other people were around (like Mormon Missionaries) and letting the dad know what he was planning on doing first to make sure it wasn’t too dangerous. Knowing my friend’s history of doing this sort of thing since childhood and knowing his dad still all these years later, it comes as no surprise that his dad was a seasoned parent.
The unseasoned parent will have their child bundled up on a cold day with so many articles of clothing that they can barely walk. The seasoned parent will see their child headed outside on a snowy day in a T-shirt and shorts and simply question them about it being cold outside knowing full well that if they need more clothing they will be back inside and get it themselves.
It is not that the seasoned parent is not concerned about their child. They just don’t see these events in life as a big deal anymore. The seasoned parent even may get some sort of entertainment value out of watching these situations unfold. It’s as if they are an observer of the events going on around them but not in any real danger.
A seasoned parent can suddenly be covered in poo while dining in a fine restaurant as the result of a defective diaper. They will then go into the bathroom, clean up, sit down, and finish the meal. This same parent can then wipe up puke from another child who gagged on some pizza cheese, pay the bill, and walk out as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. When asked about it they will act as if nothing extra ordinary occurred and behave in a way that indicates to the casual observer that this sort of thing is an everyday occurrence. Nothing out of the ordinary here to see people, move along!
Attitude has a lot to do with the response of a seasoned parent to child induced pandemonium. If you can portray the confident attitude that whatever is happening is no big deal then you are the seasoned parent. This is especially helpful when blood or broken bones are involved because panicking can only make things worse. Frankly, the medical professionals don’t have the time or patience to treat both your injured child and your panic attack.
The seasoned parent is also able to tolerate things that would make any other person hide their heads in shame. Consider for a moment the Milton Bradley board game known as Pretty, Pretty Princess. Pretty, Pretty Princess is a board game played by little girls everywhere. The object of the game is to collect several pieces of costume jewelry including wrings, necklaces, ear rings, bracelets, and finally the Pretty, Pretty Princess crown whereupon the little girl declares that she is the winner.
Many a seasoned parent, particularly of the male variety, has endured the game of Pretty, Pretty Princess. I can say with some pride that I have won the game more times than all my children combined. The seasoned parent will not only show no embarrassment playing this board game but will play to win. The seasoned parent will, upon winning, proceed to walk around the table in full Pretty, Pretty Princess regalia while doing the princess wave to his loyal subjects. If the thought of doing this sort of thing embarrasses you beyond belief, then perhaps you are not a seasoned parent.
Seasoned parents find all sorts of entertainment in their children’s play; and learning. Charades is another game where a seasoned parent not only participates, but thrives on the never ending excitement as small children take their turn at the game. My son for the longest time would only “act out” the gestures and signs for the word “pirate” when it was his turn to play. It didn’t matter if the word he drew from the pile of cards was bicycle or banana, we were going to see him acting out his very best pirate with his index finger in the shape of a hook to complete the look.
He has since graduated on from the “pirate” faze and is currently doing better in the game. The other night his word was “nail clipper” and so he proceeded to lie down on the floor. In his mind, he was the nail clipper but to us he looked like he was taking a nap. Perhaps our politicians are playing just a warped version of charades in Washington when they constantly do nothing of obvious value?
During the next round of the game his word was “Drill Sergeant” which for him meant going around the room and giving everyone a high five. I didn’t know the military drill instructors today gave so many high fives but I am old and don’t understand these things according to my children.
My youngest daughter has informed me that she is “smartickle” and knows how these things work. She was so “smartickle” that twice during our charades game she read her secret word to act out loud enough for everyone in the room to hear it.
What a new parent needs these days is a seasoned parenting boot camp. I was watching the Navy Seal training on the discovery channel and thought there should be something similar for those wanting to become parents. All the elements where there from extreme exhaustion, sleep deprivation, dirt, moisture, and screaming. Seasoned parents could stand around new recruits with crying babies all night shooting projectile vomit at them while busy bodies stand nearby shaking their heads and questioning out loud their ability to be parents. There would be obstacle courses for these potential parents where they would run bare foot in the dark across a room covered in sharp toys and goo that used to be food. It may be going off a little half cooked, but if they could survive this then perhaps they could survive the horrors of Pretty, Pretty Princess.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Disposable Diapers and Other Disposable Things
Going Off Half Cooked (Originally Written in April 2008)
Disposable Diapers and Other Disposable Things
As a parent of four children it has become my unwavering opinion that one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century is the disposable diaper. I quake and tremble at the thought of past generations of parents having to deal with some of the dootie explosions that my kids blessed us with. The thought of taking a cloth diaper and trying to resurrect it for use later is about as appealing as eating worms.
The disposable diaper was a huge hit shortly after its invention, especially with men who were now being expected to take on more and more of the duties that had been formerly relegated to women. As a man, I will readily admit that dootie duty was not on my list of priorities of things that had to be done as part of the new expectations for my species.
But early Disposable Diaper man, like Cro-Magnon man discovering fire, knew a good thing when he saw it and began to think. Now thinking back in the 20th century was not nearly as difficult as it is today. There were no cell phones, computers, Chia Pets, or 24 hour cable news channels to distract us. So 20th century man was thinking one day and must have thought, “If a diaper can be disposable, what else can we make that is also disposable?”
And thus, society came crumbling to the ground due to the invention of the disposable diaper. Cheap transistor radios were shortly followed by cheap televisions, computers, VCRs, DVD players, cell phones, microwaves, whoopee cushions, and other gadgets that all became disposable.
I remember as a kid walking into the local T.V. repair store. It was called Lee’s T.V. for some odd reason. I never met anyone there named Lee. It was a cool place with rows of televisions and VCRs the size of a Buick. The VCRs constantly flashed 12:00 and made a ker-chunk noise when they tape ejector popped up. The electrical scent of ozone permeated everything and mingled with the plastic scent of new electronics. They even started to rent VHS movies which was getting big back in the 80s..
Lee’s slowly evolved into a video rental store over the years with some electronics being sold in a corner. The repair business all but dried up with the explosion of cheap disposable electronics. Then the huge mega video rental stores came to town and Lee’s faded closed up shop. Today it is something called a Muebleria and the folks sell furniture there. I’ve never actually gone in, just looked through the window as I’ve walked by.
T.V. repair used to be an honorable trade. When your T.V. or VCR broke you took it to the repair guy and a few days later you picked it up as good as new. The repairman has gone the way of the buggy whip maker which is sad in some ways. I still have a repair man who can come to my house to fix the oven, stove, or refrigerator but he’s getting older and is the last of his kind.
The local Sears has an appliance repair center and sends people out to do repairs but it isn’t the same. They rarely have any parts to complete repairs and have to send items to a mega repair center to get fixed nearly every time. The repair center mainly exists for those folks who purchased a service contract. Most of the time they determine your VCR is a lost cause and give you a new one. It’s cheaper to give you a new one than pay a guy to fix it under the service contract. If you want to pay you can be prepared to pony up more than a new one so you don’t even bother anymore. Just one more disposable piece of society.
We had an old refrigerator from the 1960s. It was originally made by International Harvester, a company that went away in the 80s. It weighed a ton and had a tiny little icebox that would eventually frost over requiring the thing to be defrosted. It ran year after year after year. We finally got rid of it about two years ago. There was nothing wrong with it. We donated it along with an International Harvester window A/C unit from the same time period to a museum. It was sad to see them go but they both used enough electricity to power a small city in comparison to modern appliances.
Those old appliances were built to last nearly a lifetime. I miss them because they could be relied on to function day in and day out. They are gone now, replaced by disposable, modern models made by companies that I’m sure I don’t pronounce correctly made by folks in a far away country who are grateful to be working long hours for pennies a day.
The disposable society has left my kids with a warped view of the things we own. It bothers me when something doesn’t work right or hiccups a little they immediately declare that it is time to buy a new one and throw the old one away. They stare at me funny when I start fiddling with the offending item, not understanding the concept of trying to make something work just a little longer. An extra week, month, or longer of getting a machine to limp along seems like a waste of time to them. Why repair when you can start over new with a swipe of the debit card.
Our society has done the same thing with automobiles. I used to feel pretty smug opening up my car’s hood and replacing the air filter or changing the hoses for the radiator. Now I cannot even find the engine among the miles of conduit for the electronics to communicate. It used to be that you kept a car for half a lifetime, now I know people who have owned more cars in a couple years than folks used to own in an entire lifetime.
The change has been especially difficult on my father in law. He is an old school car guy. He fixed every car he ever owned. He even helped me pull the transmission on the old dodge pickup my wife drove while I was in college. I still remember the day his spirit finally broke. He had picked up one of the more current mini vans at a good used price a year or so earlier. The first cut was when he had to remove the tire to change the alternator. And that was just the beginning of the slow death of his long time love of cars.
Somehow, removing a front tire to change an alternator just doesn’t seem right. The problems continued after that. His hair got thinner and the lines by his eyes deeper as he spent hours trying to fix one problem after another on the disposable mini van. It was never meant to be fixed, just thrown away, but my father in law just couldn’t accept it.
One day he took it to the shop of a friend. He was old school like my father in law and had made his living fixing cars in a modest shop on busy street in town. He was the epitome of the old school small business guy. As the years went by this man had seen his business mostly shift over to older vehicles. He took a look at the disposable mini van and declared it dead on arrival. My father in law almost wept. He was finally beaten. The man tried to consol my father in law and eventually traded him lunch for the old mini van. We never saw that mini van again.
The days of classic cars must surely be gone when the old hands can’t fix them anymore. The romance is gone when a kid in high school can’t take a car and get it running anymore. All disposable, all gone. The old mustangs from the 60s still prowl the roads but I’m hard pressed to find one from the early 90s.
The disposable outlook on life has gone too far in many cases. Marriages today are often looked at as being disposable. I have actually heard people refer to some marriages as “starter” marriages now, with even the married couple assuming that like a starter house, they will eventually move on to something better.
Folks even treat children today like they are disposable. Often the family dog gets treated better than the children. In our state, if you hit a kid, you will probably be encouraged to get a counseling session or two. Folks understand that you were too stressed out by your job. It wasn’t your fault. But hit your dog and you will spend time in jail, the dog will be taken away, and you will be vilified in the paper with scathing letters to the editor from concerned dog lovers.
People treat their children like clothing accessories. Take the case of so many busy single moms I see these days. They are unconcerned or too busy to be bothered by the fact that their children have no father in the picture or that the kids are being traumatized by the steady stream of new boyfriends coming in and out of mom’s life or the extra half siblings added on a regular basis to the tiny apartment they live in. Teachers wait in vain at teacher conferences for these parents to find out about their child’s performance in school. They hope that just once, the parent will come in and show some real interest in their own child.
As the whole mess spins out of control the disposable kids are dumped on grandparents who seem not to understand why their children’s lives are such a mess. Their grandchildren become their own children by default as mom and the new boyfriend are too busy for them now.
I worry about my children. I don’t want them growing up with this warped sense of life where everything is disposable. Medical supplies and diapers should be disposable not children, cars, marriages, or electronics. The disposable society helps perpetuate the drive to have the newest and greatest gadgets which drives rampant credit card abuse. When things cease to have long term value, where will our children place their values? How can they look forward to the future when everything has to be new right now?
Maybe I’m going off a little half cooked here but perhaps it is time that we start living as if life was not so disposable.
Disposable Diapers and Other Disposable Things
As a parent of four children it has become my unwavering opinion that one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century is the disposable diaper. I quake and tremble at the thought of past generations of parents having to deal with some of the dootie explosions that my kids blessed us with. The thought of taking a cloth diaper and trying to resurrect it for use later is about as appealing as eating worms.
The disposable diaper was a huge hit shortly after its invention, especially with men who were now being expected to take on more and more of the duties that had been formerly relegated to women. As a man, I will readily admit that dootie duty was not on my list of priorities of things that had to be done as part of the new expectations for my species.
But early Disposable Diaper man, like Cro-Magnon man discovering fire, knew a good thing when he saw it and began to think. Now thinking back in the 20th century was not nearly as difficult as it is today. There were no cell phones, computers, Chia Pets, or 24 hour cable news channels to distract us. So 20th century man was thinking one day and must have thought, “If a diaper can be disposable, what else can we make that is also disposable?”
And thus, society came crumbling to the ground due to the invention of the disposable diaper. Cheap transistor radios were shortly followed by cheap televisions, computers, VCRs, DVD players, cell phones, microwaves, whoopee cushions, and other gadgets that all became disposable.
I remember as a kid walking into the local T.V. repair store. It was called Lee’s T.V. for some odd reason. I never met anyone there named Lee. It was a cool place with rows of televisions and VCRs the size of a Buick. The VCRs constantly flashed 12:00 and made a ker-chunk noise when they tape ejector popped up. The electrical scent of ozone permeated everything and mingled with the plastic scent of new electronics. They even started to rent VHS movies which was getting big back in the 80s..
Lee’s slowly evolved into a video rental store over the years with some electronics being sold in a corner. The repair business all but dried up with the explosion of cheap disposable electronics. Then the huge mega video rental stores came to town and Lee’s faded closed up shop. Today it is something called a Muebleria and the folks sell furniture there. I’ve never actually gone in, just looked through the window as I’ve walked by.
T.V. repair used to be an honorable trade. When your T.V. or VCR broke you took it to the repair guy and a few days later you picked it up as good as new. The repairman has gone the way of the buggy whip maker which is sad in some ways. I still have a repair man who can come to my house to fix the oven, stove, or refrigerator but he’s getting older and is the last of his kind.
The local Sears has an appliance repair center and sends people out to do repairs but it isn’t the same. They rarely have any parts to complete repairs and have to send items to a mega repair center to get fixed nearly every time. The repair center mainly exists for those folks who purchased a service contract. Most of the time they determine your VCR is a lost cause and give you a new one. It’s cheaper to give you a new one than pay a guy to fix it under the service contract. If you want to pay you can be prepared to pony up more than a new one so you don’t even bother anymore. Just one more disposable piece of society.
We had an old refrigerator from the 1960s. It was originally made by International Harvester, a company that went away in the 80s. It weighed a ton and had a tiny little icebox that would eventually frost over requiring the thing to be defrosted. It ran year after year after year. We finally got rid of it about two years ago. There was nothing wrong with it. We donated it along with an International Harvester window A/C unit from the same time period to a museum. It was sad to see them go but they both used enough electricity to power a small city in comparison to modern appliances.
Those old appliances were built to last nearly a lifetime. I miss them because they could be relied on to function day in and day out. They are gone now, replaced by disposable, modern models made by companies that I’m sure I don’t pronounce correctly made by folks in a far away country who are grateful to be working long hours for pennies a day.
The disposable society has left my kids with a warped view of the things we own. It bothers me when something doesn’t work right or hiccups a little they immediately declare that it is time to buy a new one and throw the old one away. They stare at me funny when I start fiddling with the offending item, not understanding the concept of trying to make something work just a little longer. An extra week, month, or longer of getting a machine to limp along seems like a waste of time to them. Why repair when you can start over new with a swipe of the debit card.
Our society has done the same thing with automobiles. I used to feel pretty smug opening up my car’s hood and replacing the air filter or changing the hoses for the radiator. Now I cannot even find the engine among the miles of conduit for the electronics to communicate. It used to be that you kept a car for half a lifetime, now I know people who have owned more cars in a couple years than folks used to own in an entire lifetime.
The change has been especially difficult on my father in law. He is an old school car guy. He fixed every car he ever owned. He even helped me pull the transmission on the old dodge pickup my wife drove while I was in college. I still remember the day his spirit finally broke. He had picked up one of the more current mini vans at a good used price a year or so earlier. The first cut was when he had to remove the tire to change the alternator. And that was just the beginning of the slow death of his long time love of cars.
Somehow, removing a front tire to change an alternator just doesn’t seem right. The problems continued after that. His hair got thinner and the lines by his eyes deeper as he spent hours trying to fix one problem after another on the disposable mini van. It was never meant to be fixed, just thrown away, but my father in law just couldn’t accept it.
One day he took it to the shop of a friend. He was old school like my father in law and had made his living fixing cars in a modest shop on busy street in town. He was the epitome of the old school small business guy. As the years went by this man had seen his business mostly shift over to older vehicles. He took a look at the disposable mini van and declared it dead on arrival. My father in law almost wept. He was finally beaten. The man tried to consol my father in law and eventually traded him lunch for the old mini van. We never saw that mini van again.
The days of classic cars must surely be gone when the old hands can’t fix them anymore. The romance is gone when a kid in high school can’t take a car and get it running anymore. All disposable, all gone. The old mustangs from the 60s still prowl the roads but I’m hard pressed to find one from the early 90s.
The disposable outlook on life has gone too far in many cases. Marriages today are often looked at as being disposable. I have actually heard people refer to some marriages as “starter” marriages now, with even the married couple assuming that like a starter house, they will eventually move on to something better.
Folks even treat children today like they are disposable. Often the family dog gets treated better than the children. In our state, if you hit a kid, you will probably be encouraged to get a counseling session or two. Folks understand that you were too stressed out by your job. It wasn’t your fault. But hit your dog and you will spend time in jail, the dog will be taken away, and you will be vilified in the paper with scathing letters to the editor from concerned dog lovers.
People treat their children like clothing accessories. Take the case of so many busy single moms I see these days. They are unconcerned or too busy to be bothered by the fact that their children have no father in the picture or that the kids are being traumatized by the steady stream of new boyfriends coming in and out of mom’s life or the extra half siblings added on a regular basis to the tiny apartment they live in. Teachers wait in vain at teacher conferences for these parents to find out about their child’s performance in school. They hope that just once, the parent will come in and show some real interest in their own child.
As the whole mess spins out of control the disposable kids are dumped on grandparents who seem not to understand why their children’s lives are such a mess. Their grandchildren become their own children by default as mom and the new boyfriend are too busy for them now.
I worry about my children. I don’t want them growing up with this warped sense of life where everything is disposable. Medical supplies and diapers should be disposable not children, cars, marriages, or electronics. The disposable society helps perpetuate the drive to have the newest and greatest gadgets which drives rampant credit card abuse. When things cease to have long term value, where will our children place their values? How can they look forward to the future when everything has to be new right now?
Maybe I’m going off a little half cooked here but perhaps it is time that we start living as if life was not so disposable.
Badger Fishing and Other Poor Choices
Going Off Half Cooked (Originally Written March 2008)
Badger Fishing and Other Poor Choices
20 lbs may not seem like much but like most things in life packaging and marketing have more to do with reality than the actual product you end up with. A fine example of marketing and packaging gone wrong is the lesser known but growing sport of Badger Fishing.
For those of you unfamiliar with Taxidea taxus or the American Badger, it is a creature that can only be described as 20lbs of fur and mean. The Badger is a solitary fellow who enjoys nothing more than eating raw meat except maybe running down and killing said meat, in this way they are not unlike lawyers.
Our friend badger likes to live in a den or hole in the ground at only a few feet deep but nearly a foot in diameter. Badger has sharp claws and razor sharp teeth. His surly disposition is legendary. I know a guy that went aquatic fishing one day and had the honor of being chased by Mr. Badger all the way back to his car. Upon reaching his vehicle, our hapless fisherman did not have time to enter the vehicle but found it necessary to jump on top to escape impeding doom.
Badger, not one to easily give up, circled his car for a long time unwilling to yield. Finally he disappeared and the fisherman was able to scramble in his car and pull away. As he backed out he noticed that in the early morning darkness, he had parked right on top of the badger’s abode which explained his surliness to some degree.
Badgers have very fine pelts and can often be seen atop the heads of mountain men and fur traders. I suppose if one were inclined to wear an expired animal upon one’s head, the badger would be a much better choice than say a skunk or the lowly raccoon. With apologies to David Crocket, late of Tennessee, the badger is a superior fighter to the raccoon and as such a more impressive choice in head wear.
But the badger has not had life so easy. His large diameter holes drive farmers and cattlemen into a tizzy. In spite of the badger’s reputation for ruthlessness, he is easy prey to a 17 grain lead pill fired from a rifle. In that regard it is not entirely impossible to find some sympathetic to our angry little friend.
Hence the sport of Badger Fishing was born. For the novice, I will endeavor to explain the steps for successfully fishing for badger. The first step is to locate appropriate bait. I prefer to locate a Ground Squirrel or Jack Rabbit that has recently undergone some reconstructive surgery courtesy of a high powered varmint rifle. The badger prefers his meat tenderized after all.
The next step is to secure some rope and tie the bait of choice to the end. I would suggest at least 15 feet of rope. I also like to connect the non baited end of the rope to a large stick or even better the handle of a shovel.
Now that your fishing rig is properly set up, the next step is to cast your baited rope down into the badgers abode. Unlike fishing for aquatic species, the wait time for action is pretty abbreviated as the badger is not one to pass up a free meal, not unlike a teenager.
Badger will grab on and then the fun begins. Even the strongest of adult males will find it uncanny that 20 pounds can so easily become closer to 100 or more pounds in a matter of seconds. The badger simply does not want to give back what was so freely given to him in the first place. So a tug of war ensues.
On the few occasions I have observed badger fishing and the even fewer where I have participated directly, it is possible to get the badger to either yield his treat or to even pull him out of the hole. Upon removing the badger from the hole though, the fisherman is often at a loss of what to do next.
There are three or four schools of thought on the subject. One school of thought suggests the following: “Run like hell itself was chasing you!” Yet another school of thought is to: “Run faster!” While a third group would right suggest to: “Run even faster than hell and get your butt up a tree!” I personally feel it is best not to run while still holding onto the rope with the food you gave the badger but there is some disagreement among the pro circuit of badger fishermen if this really makes a bit of difference seeing as you have already gone and made the badger mad.
Some of the less ethical have suggested fishing with a slow friend in which case the person fishing would only have to run slightly faster than his companion. While it may be tempting to invite that no good brother in law, co-worker, weasel boss, or soon to be ex-spouse to act as your fishing buddy, I can speak from experience and tell you it will do lasting harm to you in the future by limiting the pool of potential fishing partners to actual people who only like you while heavily intoxicated. Personally I like to have someone with me who enjoys owning, wearing, and shooting multiple firearms.
Having survived my latest bout with Badger fishing, I was feeling rather smug about the whole thing only to wake up the next morning and realize I had pulled a muscle in my stomach. Which brings me to another suggestion for aspiring badger fishermen (and women). Be sure and stretch out properly before badger fishing and make sure you are in good shape. This way you can avoid the most preventable of badger fishing injuries. Another added benefit, is that should the badger actually catch you, your flesh will be much more supple and firm for his palate.
As I contemplated the growing popularity of badger fishing, I thought of the other great animal related sports out in the world that are sure to benefit from the increased exposure of the new sport of kings. Noodleing, or catching catfish as big as a Buick with your bare hands is one. Another similar sport, Ferret Legging, where one inserts a pair of wild ferrets into one’s trousers for the purposes of gambling also comes to mind. Both sports involve the same level of risk and alcohol consumption as one would find in politics or the pro badger fishing circuit.
I have been contemplating an extreme version of the sport where one would try Ferret Legging, Noodleing, and Badger Fishing all at the same time. I’m sure it’s appeal to spectators could not be overstated. Perhaps the sport could take place in a cage and the participants would have shaved heads with tattoos covering their bodies because as anyone knows to be a sports hero these days, particularly in contact sports, you must have multiple tattoos. The toughest boxers and cage fighters seem to be covered in them. That fellow Mike Tyson had a face tattoo and he bit another boxer’s ear off. I can see it now. Mike Tyson in a cage with an angry badger, some meat, two ferrets down his trunks, and a catfish as big as a Buick…..Maybe I’m Going Off a Little Half Cooked!
Badger Fishing and Other Poor Choices
20 lbs may not seem like much but like most things in life packaging and marketing have more to do with reality than the actual product you end up with. A fine example of marketing and packaging gone wrong is the lesser known but growing sport of Badger Fishing.
For those of you unfamiliar with Taxidea taxus or the American Badger, it is a creature that can only be described as 20lbs of fur and mean. The Badger is a solitary fellow who enjoys nothing more than eating raw meat except maybe running down and killing said meat, in this way they are not unlike lawyers.
Our friend badger likes to live in a den or hole in the ground at only a few feet deep but nearly a foot in diameter. Badger has sharp claws and razor sharp teeth. His surly disposition is legendary. I know a guy that went aquatic fishing one day and had the honor of being chased by Mr. Badger all the way back to his car. Upon reaching his vehicle, our hapless fisherman did not have time to enter the vehicle but found it necessary to jump on top to escape impeding doom.
Badger, not one to easily give up, circled his car for a long time unwilling to yield. Finally he disappeared and the fisherman was able to scramble in his car and pull away. As he backed out he noticed that in the early morning darkness, he had parked right on top of the badger’s abode which explained his surliness to some degree.
Badgers have very fine pelts and can often be seen atop the heads of mountain men and fur traders. I suppose if one were inclined to wear an expired animal upon one’s head, the badger would be a much better choice than say a skunk or the lowly raccoon. With apologies to David Crocket, late of Tennessee, the badger is a superior fighter to the raccoon and as such a more impressive choice in head wear.
But the badger has not had life so easy. His large diameter holes drive farmers and cattlemen into a tizzy. In spite of the badger’s reputation for ruthlessness, he is easy prey to a 17 grain lead pill fired from a rifle. In that regard it is not entirely impossible to find some sympathetic to our angry little friend.
Hence the sport of Badger Fishing was born. For the novice, I will endeavor to explain the steps for successfully fishing for badger. The first step is to locate appropriate bait. I prefer to locate a Ground Squirrel or Jack Rabbit that has recently undergone some reconstructive surgery courtesy of a high powered varmint rifle. The badger prefers his meat tenderized after all.
The next step is to secure some rope and tie the bait of choice to the end. I would suggest at least 15 feet of rope. I also like to connect the non baited end of the rope to a large stick or even better the handle of a shovel.
Now that your fishing rig is properly set up, the next step is to cast your baited rope down into the badgers abode. Unlike fishing for aquatic species, the wait time for action is pretty abbreviated as the badger is not one to pass up a free meal, not unlike a teenager.
Badger will grab on and then the fun begins. Even the strongest of adult males will find it uncanny that 20 pounds can so easily become closer to 100 or more pounds in a matter of seconds. The badger simply does not want to give back what was so freely given to him in the first place. So a tug of war ensues.
On the few occasions I have observed badger fishing and the even fewer where I have participated directly, it is possible to get the badger to either yield his treat or to even pull him out of the hole. Upon removing the badger from the hole though, the fisherman is often at a loss of what to do next.
There are three or four schools of thought on the subject. One school of thought suggests the following: “Run like hell itself was chasing you!” Yet another school of thought is to: “Run faster!” While a third group would right suggest to: “Run even faster than hell and get your butt up a tree!” I personally feel it is best not to run while still holding onto the rope with the food you gave the badger but there is some disagreement among the pro circuit of badger fishermen if this really makes a bit of difference seeing as you have already gone and made the badger mad.
Some of the less ethical have suggested fishing with a slow friend in which case the person fishing would only have to run slightly faster than his companion. While it may be tempting to invite that no good brother in law, co-worker, weasel boss, or soon to be ex-spouse to act as your fishing buddy, I can speak from experience and tell you it will do lasting harm to you in the future by limiting the pool of potential fishing partners to actual people who only like you while heavily intoxicated. Personally I like to have someone with me who enjoys owning, wearing, and shooting multiple firearms.
Having survived my latest bout with Badger fishing, I was feeling rather smug about the whole thing only to wake up the next morning and realize I had pulled a muscle in my stomach. Which brings me to another suggestion for aspiring badger fishermen (and women). Be sure and stretch out properly before badger fishing and make sure you are in good shape. This way you can avoid the most preventable of badger fishing injuries. Another added benefit, is that should the badger actually catch you, your flesh will be much more supple and firm for his palate.
As I contemplated the growing popularity of badger fishing, I thought of the other great animal related sports out in the world that are sure to benefit from the increased exposure of the new sport of kings. Noodleing, or catching catfish as big as a Buick with your bare hands is one. Another similar sport, Ferret Legging, where one inserts a pair of wild ferrets into one’s trousers for the purposes of gambling also comes to mind. Both sports involve the same level of risk and alcohol consumption as one would find in politics or the pro badger fishing circuit.
I have been contemplating an extreme version of the sport where one would try Ferret Legging, Noodleing, and Badger Fishing all at the same time. I’m sure it’s appeal to spectators could not be overstated. Perhaps the sport could take place in a cage and the participants would have shaved heads with tattoos covering their bodies because as anyone knows to be a sports hero these days, particularly in contact sports, you must have multiple tattoos. The toughest boxers and cage fighters seem to be covered in them. That fellow Mike Tyson had a face tattoo and he bit another boxer’s ear off. I can see it now. Mike Tyson in a cage with an angry badger, some meat, two ferrets down his trunks, and a catfish as big as a Buick…..Maybe I’m Going Off a Little Half Cooked!
Cars That Kill
Going Off Half Cooked- Cars that Kill
I was at home last night and turned on the television to find the classic 80s flick “Christine” was on. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this movie it is based on the Stephen King novel about a teenager with a possessed car. The car comes alive and starts killing people seeking some sort of twisted vengeance.
The car had the unique ability to self repair to a like new condition after it crashed into victims. At one point the exterior and interior are badly burned and the next morning the car looks just like new. In the end, the car has to be crushed into a block of twisted metal to stop it from going out and killing people.
Inanimate objects coming to life and killing hapless victims has been a relatively recent phenomena. How many adults have a strong dislike for old fashioned dolls with the eyes that open and close simply because they saw some creepy movie where the doll came to life and tried to kill people? Dolls didn’t come to life and kill people before and no one was afraid of them but somewhere along the line they became evil dolls bent on killing people.
Cars seem to magically come to life these days and go on killing sprees. Stephen King’s fictional novel is today’s reality. Sport Utility Vehicles (SUVs) are constantly mentioned in the headlines for their dastardly deeds. Just type “SUVs Kill” into Google and see how many hits come up. I guess after the movie “Christine” came out in theaters, other cars learned that they too could begin murdering hapless people across the country.
Obesity also kills people or so I’ve read in the papers. I can just see some poor fat slob sitting in his dirty wife beater on the couch watching Oprah when suddenly his fat bulges come to life and swallow him up. The police show up only to find the wife beater shirt and some dirty boxers where the man used to be. A detective that looks like Columbo tells a beat cop resembling Barney Fife that the suspect is that dreaded Obesity. Obesity kills 26,000 people per year, didn’t you know!
Guns also seem to spring to life without warning and start barking lead slugs in all directions. The papers are full of headlines about guns killing. I’m sure the headlines don’t tell the full story. The gun was just sitting in an old lady’s purse minding its own business when it suddenly became angry and started firing without warning. We indeed live in a scary world where nothing can be taken for granted.
I have also read that Crack kills thousands of people every year which is a sad commentary on blue collar occupations such as plumbers and bar flies. The vicious crack does not seem content to just be hidden but must force down the pants of the unsuspecting crack owner and take vicious aim at any bystander that happens to be looking that direction. The Crack problem does not get anywhere near the press it used to because it tends to involve white, middle aged men. Had the crack problem been afflicting more minorities, perhaps there would have been government funding to help stop the problem.
In addition to Crack, other drugs both legal and illegal are often blamed for killing. Tainted produce has also been known to come to life and kill without remorse. I long for the good old days when predatory animals, crazed mad-man dictators, nefarious viruses, politicians, and aliens from the furthest reaches of the galaxy did all the killing. At least back then there were no surprises.
No one would walk into a garage worrying if the chainsaw would suddenly spring to life trying to kill. No one worried about little Suzy’s new doll choking her to death in the middle of the night or little Bobby’s bicycle taking control and killing. The inanimate objects (other than the politicians) weren’t killing people. It took living organisms to do the killing. There were no surprises when you tried to go for a drive down the freeway. No SUVs, crazed with anger, came roaring your direction trying to kill you.
Back in the good old days, you could rely on your dog eating your homework and it made perfect sense. Everyone knew that dogs had veracious appetites for wood pulp products. When little Eddie showed up to school sans homework and told the teacher the dog ate it, there was always the possibility that the dog did indeed make a conscious decision to eat the steno pad. That sort of thing was foreseeable because that same dog had messed on the carpet, ruined mom’s new high heel pumps, and eaten the cord to grandpa’s table saw. The dog had free will and was mad with anger at the things of the world. The dog could think and act on its own. If your dog did eat your homework, it wasn’t too shocking.
I have often heard that animals are extra sensitive to changes in the environment. There are scientists that theorize that animals can sense an approaching tsunami or when an earthquake will happen. Perhaps man’s best friend knew that inanimate objects were beginning to stir from the depths of slumber to bring havoc and chaos to mankind. Perhaps Fido ate your homework to protect you!
Since all dogs except for Lassie can’t talk, perhaps they did the only thing they could do. They chewed up everything that was going to try and kill. My sister’s dog chewed up several items in her house including her cell phone and we all know that cell phones are killing people right and left these days. Fido should not be wacked with the newspaper for chewing up the cell phone; he should be celebrated with a fat juicy steak for his efforts in the face of incredible adversity.
Even Lassie has done her best to save the planet. Unfortunately, Timmy keeps falling in the well leaving her very little time to attack things that may kill. Lassie was one of the first dogs involved in the life saving business and even tried at times to tell people what the danger was. And what did that ingrate Timmy do? He kept falling down the well and leaving poor Lassie no time to fight the other dangers or learn proper English. This would have helped Timmy when Lassie was trying to get help.
Lassie had other challenges as well. As a Collie, she was of Scottish ancestry and a dog trying to learn to speak with a Scottish accent is already facing an uphill battle. Imagine if Sean Connery only spoke dog and suddenly had to learn English. It would be near impossible for him to be understood by anyone. He’d be threatening to kill Goldfinger and Goldfinger would have to keep asking him to repeat himself which isn’t the way to intimidate a huge crime boss. So Lassie was working on her communication skills but with all of Timmy’s problems falling in every well in the county, she could only do so much.
The poor klutzes of the world, like Timmy, stand no chance in today’s dangerous environment. The kid kept falling into wells for goodness sake, how is he going to avoid an angry SUV or sadistic lawnmower bent on killing him? What we need are more laws to protect us but unfortunately the politicians are a big part of the problem themselves.
When bicycles started killing a few years back, the politicians didn’t think it was in their best interest politically to declare war on the bicycles. Ever since World War II, politicians have been reluctant to declare war. They are worried about getting re-elected and the anti-war lobby can make this very difficult. Instead they passed crazy laws requiring helmets which just slow a kid down when he’s trying to run from a crazed bicycle. In the end, the bicycle is easily able to catch the child. It’s a bike for goodness sake not a sack of potatoes!
When will the madness end? Americans need to wake up to the real and present danger we are faced with from crazed inanimate objects before it is too late. We must come up with a plan to protect the American people. It may cost us some of our liberty and even be inconvenient at times but is that too much of a cost to feel safe once again? Crazed inanimate objects must be sent somewhere where they cannot hurt real people anymore like San Francisco or Cuba. Cuba already has a government facility set up for handling terrorists; perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone. We could give these angry bicycles, guns, chainsaws, SUVs, drugs, and dolls to the terrorists and they could engage in a battle royal!
The cost would be negligible and it might even turn a profit for the government. The government could auction off the broadcast rights to the whole thing to a cable channel. It would be one of the highest rated reality shows ever. We could call it, “When Wild SUVs Attack Enemy Combatants in Cuba” or “The Crack Wars of Guantanamo Bay Watch”. We could have David “The Hoff” Hasselhoff hosting the whole thing.
Bringing “The Hoff” into the show would make the show appealing to a much broader audience. “The Hoff” is very popular in both Europe and Japan. He even had a number one hit song in Germany.
Those folks love “The Hoff” and I am certain it is only a matter of time before inanimate objects and their quest for domination spread into those areas of the world. The show would be of great service to the world by showing them the dangers these items are to their peoples. I may be going off a little half cooked here, but I think “The Hoff” may be the best hope for our future and our children’s future.
I was at home last night and turned on the television to find the classic 80s flick “Christine” was on. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this movie it is based on the Stephen King novel about a teenager with a possessed car. The car comes alive and starts killing people seeking some sort of twisted vengeance.
The car had the unique ability to self repair to a like new condition after it crashed into victims. At one point the exterior and interior are badly burned and the next morning the car looks just like new. In the end, the car has to be crushed into a block of twisted metal to stop it from going out and killing people.
Inanimate objects coming to life and killing hapless victims has been a relatively recent phenomena. How many adults have a strong dislike for old fashioned dolls with the eyes that open and close simply because they saw some creepy movie where the doll came to life and tried to kill people? Dolls didn’t come to life and kill people before and no one was afraid of them but somewhere along the line they became evil dolls bent on killing people.
Cars seem to magically come to life these days and go on killing sprees. Stephen King’s fictional novel is today’s reality. Sport Utility Vehicles (SUVs) are constantly mentioned in the headlines for their dastardly deeds. Just type “SUVs Kill” into Google and see how many hits come up. I guess after the movie “Christine” came out in theaters, other cars learned that they too could begin murdering hapless people across the country.
Obesity also kills people or so I’ve read in the papers. I can just see some poor fat slob sitting in his dirty wife beater on the couch watching Oprah when suddenly his fat bulges come to life and swallow him up. The police show up only to find the wife beater shirt and some dirty boxers where the man used to be. A detective that looks like Columbo tells a beat cop resembling Barney Fife that the suspect is that dreaded Obesity. Obesity kills 26,000 people per year, didn’t you know!
Guns also seem to spring to life without warning and start barking lead slugs in all directions. The papers are full of headlines about guns killing. I’m sure the headlines don’t tell the full story. The gun was just sitting in an old lady’s purse minding its own business when it suddenly became angry and started firing without warning. We indeed live in a scary world where nothing can be taken for granted.
I have also read that Crack kills thousands of people every year which is a sad commentary on blue collar occupations such as plumbers and bar flies. The vicious crack does not seem content to just be hidden but must force down the pants of the unsuspecting crack owner and take vicious aim at any bystander that happens to be looking that direction. The Crack problem does not get anywhere near the press it used to because it tends to involve white, middle aged men. Had the crack problem been afflicting more minorities, perhaps there would have been government funding to help stop the problem.
In addition to Crack, other drugs both legal and illegal are often blamed for killing. Tainted produce has also been known to come to life and kill without remorse. I long for the good old days when predatory animals, crazed mad-man dictators, nefarious viruses, politicians, and aliens from the furthest reaches of the galaxy did all the killing. At least back then there were no surprises.
No one would walk into a garage worrying if the chainsaw would suddenly spring to life trying to kill. No one worried about little Suzy’s new doll choking her to death in the middle of the night or little Bobby’s bicycle taking control and killing. The inanimate objects (other than the politicians) weren’t killing people. It took living organisms to do the killing. There were no surprises when you tried to go for a drive down the freeway. No SUVs, crazed with anger, came roaring your direction trying to kill you.
Back in the good old days, you could rely on your dog eating your homework and it made perfect sense. Everyone knew that dogs had veracious appetites for wood pulp products. When little Eddie showed up to school sans homework and told the teacher the dog ate it, there was always the possibility that the dog did indeed make a conscious decision to eat the steno pad. That sort of thing was foreseeable because that same dog had messed on the carpet, ruined mom’s new high heel pumps, and eaten the cord to grandpa’s table saw. The dog had free will and was mad with anger at the things of the world. The dog could think and act on its own. If your dog did eat your homework, it wasn’t too shocking.
I have often heard that animals are extra sensitive to changes in the environment. There are scientists that theorize that animals can sense an approaching tsunami or when an earthquake will happen. Perhaps man’s best friend knew that inanimate objects were beginning to stir from the depths of slumber to bring havoc and chaos to mankind. Perhaps Fido ate your homework to protect you!
Since all dogs except for Lassie can’t talk, perhaps they did the only thing they could do. They chewed up everything that was going to try and kill. My sister’s dog chewed up several items in her house including her cell phone and we all know that cell phones are killing people right and left these days. Fido should not be wacked with the newspaper for chewing up the cell phone; he should be celebrated with a fat juicy steak for his efforts in the face of incredible adversity.
Even Lassie has done her best to save the planet. Unfortunately, Timmy keeps falling in the well leaving her very little time to attack things that may kill. Lassie was one of the first dogs involved in the life saving business and even tried at times to tell people what the danger was. And what did that ingrate Timmy do? He kept falling down the well and leaving poor Lassie no time to fight the other dangers or learn proper English. This would have helped Timmy when Lassie was trying to get help.
Lassie had other challenges as well. As a Collie, she was of Scottish ancestry and a dog trying to learn to speak with a Scottish accent is already facing an uphill battle. Imagine if Sean Connery only spoke dog and suddenly had to learn English. It would be near impossible for him to be understood by anyone. He’d be threatening to kill Goldfinger and Goldfinger would have to keep asking him to repeat himself which isn’t the way to intimidate a huge crime boss. So Lassie was working on her communication skills but with all of Timmy’s problems falling in every well in the county, she could only do so much.
The poor klutzes of the world, like Timmy, stand no chance in today’s dangerous environment. The kid kept falling into wells for goodness sake, how is he going to avoid an angry SUV or sadistic lawnmower bent on killing him? What we need are more laws to protect us but unfortunately the politicians are a big part of the problem themselves.
When bicycles started killing a few years back, the politicians didn’t think it was in their best interest politically to declare war on the bicycles. Ever since World War II, politicians have been reluctant to declare war. They are worried about getting re-elected and the anti-war lobby can make this very difficult. Instead they passed crazy laws requiring helmets which just slow a kid down when he’s trying to run from a crazed bicycle. In the end, the bicycle is easily able to catch the child. It’s a bike for goodness sake not a sack of potatoes!
When will the madness end? Americans need to wake up to the real and present danger we are faced with from crazed inanimate objects before it is too late. We must come up with a plan to protect the American people. It may cost us some of our liberty and even be inconvenient at times but is that too much of a cost to feel safe once again? Crazed inanimate objects must be sent somewhere where they cannot hurt real people anymore like San Francisco or Cuba. Cuba already has a government facility set up for handling terrorists; perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone. We could give these angry bicycles, guns, chainsaws, SUVs, drugs, and dolls to the terrorists and they could engage in a battle royal!
The cost would be negligible and it might even turn a profit for the government. The government could auction off the broadcast rights to the whole thing to a cable channel. It would be one of the highest rated reality shows ever. We could call it, “When Wild SUVs Attack Enemy Combatants in Cuba” or “The Crack Wars of Guantanamo Bay Watch”. We could have David “The Hoff” Hasselhoff hosting the whole thing.
Bringing “The Hoff” into the show would make the show appealing to a much broader audience. “The Hoff” is very popular in both Europe and Japan. He even had a number one hit song in Germany.
Those folks love “The Hoff” and I am certain it is only a matter of time before inanimate objects and their quest for domination spread into those areas of the world. The show would be of great service to the world by showing them the dangers these items are to their peoples. I may be going off a little half cooked here, but I think “The Hoff” may be the best hope for our future and our children’s future.
Dragon Slayers
Going Off Half Cooked (Originally Written in June 2008)
Dragon Slayers
Men are genetically designed to be dragon slayers. From our earliest days as children, men prepare for combat. Every stick becomes a sword and every dark corner of the yard a dangerous cave to explore. It’s a part of the genetic code of every boy from birth but what happens when there are no dragons to slay?
When I was about 16 I attended a church meeting for teens. The speaker talked about how men want to save the damsel in distress, to slay the dragons that are attacking her, to be the hero, and bask in the glory due every knight in shining armor.
According to the speaker, the typical young man’s fantasy involves the young woman dressed in a long flowing gown in a green wooded area with the sun dancing perfectly on her hair when suddenly a huge dragon comes out of the woods. The young man, as the hero, comes charging in with sword drawn, fights off the dragon, saves the damsel, and wins her love. I distinctly remember listening to this speaker and thinking that finally, someone understands me.
Of course the young male fantasy is different for some of us. In the mind’s eye of some young men, the hero is wielding a light saber and for others fighting off evil ninjas. I must admit that I have had the ninja fantasy but it really isn’t my fault. I’m a product of the 80s when ninja movies were all the rage and Ralph Macchio was hanging out with Arnold from Happy Days. Besides, who was afraid of a dragon back in the late 80s?
Dragons are basically big dinosaurs that have brains the size of a walnut. Until Jurassic Park came out, no one was really that afraid of dinosaurs, especially people from my generation who grew up with Sid and Marty Croft’s “Land of the Lost”. Those dinosaurs never could catch Chaka for goodness sake and he couldn’t have been an easier catch unless he was wearing a big, lighted, neon sign that said, “Free Steak!”.
But ninjas are super dangerous assassins in black masks. They are ruthlessly trained to kill and employ all sorts of different weapons and trickery to complete their missions. So when 6 ninjas attacked the beautiful maiden in my fantasy, it was serious business.
From an early age and throughout history, little boys have wanted to be heroes. My own son has been Spiderman, batman, superman, a cowboy, an explorer, a fireman, a police officer, and a pilot. All those roles in one afternoon! He is ready and willing to fight the bad guys although at his age the bad guys are often in league with those cootie infested girls that want to marry him! And according to him, if he’s gonna have to marry any of those cootie infested girls, it’s gonna be the blond one so he will have blond kids. So I guess he’s picked out his damsel in distress/princess already and didn’t even know it.
I didn’t teach him the desire to be a hero and save the day and I cannot recall having anyone teach me those things when I was a lad. I think in most men there is something stirring them from within at an early age to be something great, to save the day, or be that larger than life hero.
Then, for most of us, we grow up and get mundane jobs and come home to a house full of little pygmy warriors and suddenly our damsel that we saved is looking a little more tired and a lot more frazzled. We’d like to think it was the ninjas that got to her but I’m pretty sure it was the pygmies. Pygmies aren’t nearly as exciting as ninjas!
As the paunchy hero walks in the door after a long day at the office, a small pygmy is thrust into his face and the damsel, looking more disheveled than usual, proclaims that he is now, “your son”. He smiles at you with a wicked little grin through blue teeth from the marking pen he got from his sister pygmy that he decided had to be food. Suddenly the odor from the pygmy’s loin cloth reaches our hero’s nostrils and fearing a visit from a government thug, he proceeds to remove the toxic waste and fit him with a new loin cloth.
The hero drags his tired carcass into the bedroom where instead of removing his armor or karate fighting uniform, he takes off a horribly uncomfortable collard shirt and slacks. He crashes into his comfortable chair as a group of pygmies plan their attack which usually involves a groin strike of some sort which being without armor is a near mortal attack.
In the next scene our hero is lying on the floor with an ice pack on his nether regions while serving as a mounting climbing expedition for the blue toothed smallest of the small pygmies. Overcome with exhaustion from a long day of crunching numbers at work instead of smashing the bones of evil ninjas, our hero begins to slip into a coma when suddenly he is informed that supper is ready.
He grabs the blue toothed pygmy and heads to the kitchen stepping on several sharp objects that obviously were booby traps left by those cunning pygmies. Those little guys are just bent on world destruction! Our hero steps into the kitchen and the bitter smell of charcoal reaches his nostrils as a plate is thrust his direction. He notices a fire extinguisher by the oven but the crazed look on the damsel’s face scares him so badly that he temporarily loses his voice. He looks at the damsel again to make sure this is the same woman he was ready to fight ninjas for years earlier and thinks that maybe the best strategy would have been to let the ninjas have her. A few years with her and they wouldn’t be so tough!!!
A few hours later the pygmies have returned to their huts to plan the next days strategies for global domination and our hero is sitting in his easy chair wondering what he heck happened that day. He stumbles off to bed wondering what tomorrow will bring.
It starts out with a shrill sound from the alarm clock. As our hero stumbles to the bathroom he was nearly taken out at the shins by some object obviously left by pygmies. In his half awake state his quest to find the shower is not unlike a famous archeologist attempting to make it past various booby traps to find the golden treasure.
Upon reaching the refreshing warm waters he was greeted by more booby traps including the dreaded cold, wet washcloth. After exiting the rejuvenating waters, he finds that the pygmies have made off with all the clean towels. A quick yell to the still sleeping princess/damsel is returned by a groan that eerily sounds like “check the closet”. So our buck naked hero begins his dripping wet march through the jungle of entangled snares and booby traps and finds a nice Barbie beach towel that is so old you can nearly see through it with which he covers up his nakedness just in time to see two of the smaller pygmies have emerged in time to stare at his backside as he searched each shelf of the hall closet for something larger than a washcloth.
Our hero then heads to his own closet to pick out his armor for the day. He quickly realizes that the only work shirt he has is the long sleeve one where the sleeves are about two inches too short. No problem, as our hero knows how to make lemons into, well, super sour juice that burns if you happen to have a cut or sore in your mouth. He’ll just roll the sleeves up and go with the hard working/busy look today. It should be especially convincing in early January!
As our hero begins to exit the house in preparation to mount his fine stead, an AMC Pacer, he sees the line up of little pygmies waving goodbye through the frosty window. No doubt it is some trick to get him to let his guard down upon his return. Vicious little pygmies!
Our hero begins the trek to the office. The AMC Pacer winds its way down the highway among the other brave warriors at the breakneck speed of 10 miles per hour. Our hero dreams of mounting a horse and going around the other vehicles in the road. Finally he arrives at work and is disappointed to find once again that the non-descript office building has not magically transformed into a castle. He also finds that some ninny has parked a brand new Lincoln in his parking space.
He carefully ventures in to the building and meets his new boss who looks like he just stopped teething and notices the Lincoln keys hanging on the side of his pant’s pocket. He wonder’s if the nights of the round table ever had to deal with children telling them what to do and taking their stable space without asking.
A few phone calls later to customers and our hero is feeling like he has been through a war. The first customer didn’t receive his order in California because the truck driver decided to make an extended stop in Las Vegas. The second customer is mad because what he received was not what he ordered. Our hero suspects that he will receive a second call from the first customer as soon as his shipment does arrive with similar information.
When the day finally ends the thought of running away to join the French Foreign Legion crosses his mind. One early turn off the interstate and he would be on his way. Then he remembers that The Legion’s recruiting record for middle aged heroes isn’t so hot. Of course, they might take one look at him wearing rolled up sleeves in January and think he is tougher than the average recruit.
He begins the slow drive home at the blistering speed of 12 miles per hour. In celebration of his good fortune he decides to turn on the Pacer’s stereo system which consists of an 8 track player with an one 8 track single of Andy Gibb’s disco hit “I Just Want To Be Your Everything” which plays over and over and over because his princess/damsel got the tape stuck in there the first week they owned that particular vehicle. Our hero sings along with a whole new set of lyrics which call into question Gibb’s manhood and extols his penchant for having relations with livestock.
As our tired hero pulls into the driveway he wonders to himself whether he could even take on one ninja anymore bent on taking his princess. If only they would take the pygmies too! But just then, the smell of good home cooking reaches his nose. He enters his castle and finds that his princess, while still looking a bit tired is smiling and the pygmies have magically disappeared and been replaced by little warriors and princesses. The booby traps are no where to be seen. They greet him with a hug and a smile and suddenly as his nostrils smell his wife’s favorite perfume, the clouds part. He is the hero of the story after all. His dreams of running off to The Legion were just him going off a little half cooked. He is fighting off the forces of evil bent on their destruction. There is glory to be found in the simple fight he makes each day for his castle and his princess.
Dragon Slayers
Men are genetically designed to be dragon slayers. From our earliest days as children, men prepare for combat. Every stick becomes a sword and every dark corner of the yard a dangerous cave to explore. It’s a part of the genetic code of every boy from birth but what happens when there are no dragons to slay?
When I was about 16 I attended a church meeting for teens. The speaker talked about how men want to save the damsel in distress, to slay the dragons that are attacking her, to be the hero, and bask in the glory due every knight in shining armor.
According to the speaker, the typical young man’s fantasy involves the young woman dressed in a long flowing gown in a green wooded area with the sun dancing perfectly on her hair when suddenly a huge dragon comes out of the woods. The young man, as the hero, comes charging in with sword drawn, fights off the dragon, saves the damsel, and wins her love. I distinctly remember listening to this speaker and thinking that finally, someone understands me.
Of course the young male fantasy is different for some of us. In the mind’s eye of some young men, the hero is wielding a light saber and for others fighting off evil ninjas. I must admit that I have had the ninja fantasy but it really isn’t my fault. I’m a product of the 80s when ninja movies were all the rage and Ralph Macchio was hanging out with Arnold from Happy Days. Besides, who was afraid of a dragon back in the late 80s?
Dragons are basically big dinosaurs that have brains the size of a walnut. Until Jurassic Park came out, no one was really that afraid of dinosaurs, especially people from my generation who grew up with Sid and Marty Croft’s “Land of the Lost”. Those dinosaurs never could catch Chaka for goodness sake and he couldn’t have been an easier catch unless he was wearing a big, lighted, neon sign that said, “Free Steak!”.
But ninjas are super dangerous assassins in black masks. They are ruthlessly trained to kill and employ all sorts of different weapons and trickery to complete their missions. So when 6 ninjas attacked the beautiful maiden in my fantasy, it was serious business.
From an early age and throughout history, little boys have wanted to be heroes. My own son has been Spiderman, batman, superman, a cowboy, an explorer, a fireman, a police officer, and a pilot. All those roles in one afternoon! He is ready and willing to fight the bad guys although at his age the bad guys are often in league with those cootie infested girls that want to marry him! And according to him, if he’s gonna have to marry any of those cootie infested girls, it’s gonna be the blond one so he will have blond kids. So I guess he’s picked out his damsel in distress/princess already and didn’t even know it.
I didn’t teach him the desire to be a hero and save the day and I cannot recall having anyone teach me those things when I was a lad. I think in most men there is something stirring them from within at an early age to be something great, to save the day, or be that larger than life hero.
Then, for most of us, we grow up and get mundane jobs and come home to a house full of little pygmy warriors and suddenly our damsel that we saved is looking a little more tired and a lot more frazzled. We’d like to think it was the ninjas that got to her but I’m pretty sure it was the pygmies. Pygmies aren’t nearly as exciting as ninjas!
As the paunchy hero walks in the door after a long day at the office, a small pygmy is thrust into his face and the damsel, looking more disheveled than usual, proclaims that he is now, “your son”. He smiles at you with a wicked little grin through blue teeth from the marking pen he got from his sister pygmy that he decided had to be food. Suddenly the odor from the pygmy’s loin cloth reaches our hero’s nostrils and fearing a visit from a government thug, he proceeds to remove the toxic waste and fit him with a new loin cloth.
The hero drags his tired carcass into the bedroom where instead of removing his armor or karate fighting uniform, he takes off a horribly uncomfortable collard shirt and slacks. He crashes into his comfortable chair as a group of pygmies plan their attack which usually involves a groin strike of some sort which being without armor is a near mortal attack.
In the next scene our hero is lying on the floor with an ice pack on his nether regions while serving as a mounting climbing expedition for the blue toothed smallest of the small pygmies. Overcome with exhaustion from a long day of crunching numbers at work instead of smashing the bones of evil ninjas, our hero begins to slip into a coma when suddenly he is informed that supper is ready.
He grabs the blue toothed pygmy and heads to the kitchen stepping on several sharp objects that obviously were booby traps left by those cunning pygmies. Those little guys are just bent on world destruction! Our hero steps into the kitchen and the bitter smell of charcoal reaches his nostrils as a plate is thrust his direction. He notices a fire extinguisher by the oven but the crazed look on the damsel’s face scares him so badly that he temporarily loses his voice. He looks at the damsel again to make sure this is the same woman he was ready to fight ninjas for years earlier and thinks that maybe the best strategy would have been to let the ninjas have her. A few years with her and they wouldn’t be so tough!!!
A few hours later the pygmies have returned to their huts to plan the next days strategies for global domination and our hero is sitting in his easy chair wondering what he heck happened that day. He stumbles off to bed wondering what tomorrow will bring.
It starts out with a shrill sound from the alarm clock. As our hero stumbles to the bathroom he was nearly taken out at the shins by some object obviously left by pygmies. In his half awake state his quest to find the shower is not unlike a famous archeologist attempting to make it past various booby traps to find the golden treasure.
Upon reaching the refreshing warm waters he was greeted by more booby traps including the dreaded cold, wet washcloth. After exiting the rejuvenating waters, he finds that the pygmies have made off with all the clean towels. A quick yell to the still sleeping princess/damsel is returned by a groan that eerily sounds like “check the closet”. So our buck naked hero begins his dripping wet march through the jungle of entangled snares and booby traps and finds a nice Barbie beach towel that is so old you can nearly see through it with which he covers up his nakedness just in time to see two of the smaller pygmies have emerged in time to stare at his backside as he searched each shelf of the hall closet for something larger than a washcloth.
Our hero then heads to his own closet to pick out his armor for the day. He quickly realizes that the only work shirt he has is the long sleeve one where the sleeves are about two inches too short. No problem, as our hero knows how to make lemons into, well, super sour juice that burns if you happen to have a cut or sore in your mouth. He’ll just roll the sleeves up and go with the hard working/busy look today. It should be especially convincing in early January!
As our hero begins to exit the house in preparation to mount his fine stead, an AMC Pacer, he sees the line up of little pygmies waving goodbye through the frosty window. No doubt it is some trick to get him to let his guard down upon his return. Vicious little pygmies!
Our hero begins the trek to the office. The AMC Pacer winds its way down the highway among the other brave warriors at the breakneck speed of 10 miles per hour. Our hero dreams of mounting a horse and going around the other vehicles in the road. Finally he arrives at work and is disappointed to find once again that the non-descript office building has not magically transformed into a castle. He also finds that some ninny has parked a brand new Lincoln in his parking space.
He carefully ventures in to the building and meets his new boss who looks like he just stopped teething and notices the Lincoln keys hanging on the side of his pant’s pocket. He wonder’s if the nights of the round table ever had to deal with children telling them what to do and taking their stable space without asking.
A few phone calls later to customers and our hero is feeling like he has been through a war. The first customer didn’t receive his order in California because the truck driver decided to make an extended stop in Las Vegas. The second customer is mad because what he received was not what he ordered. Our hero suspects that he will receive a second call from the first customer as soon as his shipment does arrive with similar information.
When the day finally ends the thought of running away to join the French Foreign Legion crosses his mind. One early turn off the interstate and he would be on his way. Then he remembers that The Legion’s recruiting record for middle aged heroes isn’t so hot. Of course, they might take one look at him wearing rolled up sleeves in January and think he is tougher than the average recruit.
He begins the slow drive home at the blistering speed of 12 miles per hour. In celebration of his good fortune he decides to turn on the Pacer’s stereo system which consists of an 8 track player with an one 8 track single of Andy Gibb’s disco hit “I Just Want To Be Your Everything” which plays over and over and over because his princess/damsel got the tape stuck in there the first week they owned that particular vehicle. Our hero sings along with a whole new set of lyrics which call into question Gibb’s manhood and extols his penchant for having relations with livestock.
As our tired hero pulls into the driveway he wonders to himself whether he could even take on one ninja anymore bent on taking his princess. If only they would take the pygmies too! But just then, the smell of good home cooking reaches his nose. He enters his castle and finds that his princess, while still looking a bit tired is smiling and the pygmies have magically disappeared and been replaced by little warriors and princesses. The booby traps are no where to be seen. They greet him with a hug and a smile and suddenly as his nostrils smell his wife’s favorite perfume, the clouds part. He is the hero of the story after all. His dreams of running off to The Legion were just him going off a little half cooked. He is fighting off the forces of evil bent on their destruction. There is glory to be found in the simple fight he makes each day for his castle and his princess.
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