Nuclear Family Warhead

Hello. You don’t actually know me by name, but let me introduce myself. I am the severely depressed, erectile dysfunctional, herpes inflicted, anxiety disorder victimized, panic attack having, AD/HD….Hey look! A squirrel!……sorry about that, AD/HD suffering, narcolepzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz oops; dozed off again, didn’t I? Narcolepsy suffering, heartburn bemoaning insomniac who’s blog comment box you have been filling on a daily basis with all of those wonderful deals. How are you? I’m not so good. Thank God you found me in time. I would have gotten back to you sooner, but this personality only surfaces every few weeks, so I’m taking advantage of the time we have before “Frank” comes back and ruins the party for everyone. For ordering information, just call me, oh, um, I don’t really care-I’m the bi-polar personality, call me what ever you like, I’ll get pissed about it later. How about “Joe”?  Does that work for you?  Ok, good. I’ll call you Dr. Spammer; sound alright? COOL! Let’s do some bidness.

Here’s what I need: I’m looking for someone who can supply me with my meds on a regular basis.  The jerks at Wal-Mart won’t give me the $4 prescriptions anymore because apparently you need to be “sick”, or something in order to get one filled.  I AM sick, trust me.  The fact that I didn’t have it on “Stationary” or “Dr.’s Prescription Pad” is apparently an issue with the folks at Wal-Mart.  How was I supposed to know that the back of my Burger King receipt in highlighter wasn’t good enough for them?  That greeter was a real piece of work too, he’s supposed to say; “Welcome to Wal-Mart”, not “Stay the hell out or I’m calling the cops!”  Whatever. 

Anyway, can you help me out?  Here’s what I need: Valtrex, Viagra, Valium-basically I need all of the “V” family; send it all.  Next; I need Percocet, Wellbutrin, Lexapro, Celexa-everything in the “Happy” classification will be fine.  Also; Hydrocodone, Adderall, Ritalin, Xanax, Prevacid, Tramadol and Aspirin.  You know, for the headaches.  Oh, and Allegra.  I’ve got horrible allergies.  Please throw in an antihistamine and a nice multi-vitamin as this is basically my meal for the day.  Is it possible to get a volume discount?  I’ll be placing 2 to 3 orders a week.  Last but not least; is there anyway for you guys to combine these into just 3 or 4 pills?  You know, grind ‘em up and repack them in a bigger capsule?  I can handle anything up to the size of a tuna can.  The little ones, not the family size.  Thank you in advance for all of your help; reliable pharmacy service has been an issue for me lately, as I’m sure you can imagine.  You can reach me through my blog’s comment page at….HA!  What am I saying?  Jokes on me!  You KNOW where to find me, don’t you?

My neighbors dog is killing me.  It barks incessantly.  But ONLY at night.  Usually between the hours of 2am and 5am.  I think it suffers from daytime narcolepsy.  Barring a poisoned pork chop; I’m running out of options.  I have several that I can still employ, but the pork chop is looking better and better.  Now, before you call the ASPCA on me, understand that I am TOTALLY kidding about the pork chop.  At least for the dog.  The owners; however… 

I do take some pity on the dog.  It lives it’s entire existence in a store bought 8 X 8 chain link pen.  Her owner cut a hole in the pen and attached a dog house to it.  Sort of like an afterthought addition to a house.  The people house has no fence, so the pen is the only way to contain the dog.  Unless you count the times when they let her out of her pen and place her leash under one of the legs of a patio chair.  That worked out real well.  A 60 pound female lab can drag a wrought iron patio chair around the yard like it’s a cardboard box.  It was only slightly humorous when the dog thought the chair was chasing her around the yard.  She’d dart, tail between the legs down the hill only to look back to see the chair chasing her.  Her yelping brought out the owners quickly enough to avoid me having to become involved. 

This is a seasonal issue.  The winter time is blissful in that the nights are cold and she is in her dog house.  Most of the animals that cause nocturnal stirrings are usually asleep also; squirrels, possums, cats and the occasional Jehovah’s Witness.  Summertime brings warm evenings and lots of animal activity.  For some reason, our neighborhood has more squirrels than it has trees.  The squirrels are either spending their nights looking for new digs, or they are just monster partyers.  At some point during the early morning the revelers make their way to my house; like it’s Sixth Street in Austin; or Franklin Street in Chapel Hill.  Insert your University’s party street here.  Getting out of bed to go disperse the roustabouts is useless.  They’ll all just jump in their cars, turn on the radio and claim ignorance when I tap on their window with my nightstick. 

I’m sure some of you are thinking that if you were in this situation that you would unleash the Hounds of Hell to stop this; how come I’m not?  Well; it’s a little more complicated.   We have a drainage issue that centers on the house of the neighbors I’m talking about.  It involves a shady developer, the Mayor of the city, 9 acres of water that flows through my yard and another entire posts’ worth of explanation that I will spare you.  For now.  I have a plan; it’s the timing that is crucial.  D-Day took over 18 months to plan and execute; so have a little faith in me.  All the juicy details will be revealed as they occur; I promise.

Wow.  What a great day this turned out to be!  I woke up to find a ton (for me, at least) of comments on my Father’s Day post; linky love from Mr. Lady at Whiskey In My Sippy Cup and Melisa at Suburban Scrawl, and then I got TrampledUpon  StumbledUpon.  It’s been a busy day.  To top it off, the YMCA flag football team that I coach beat the unbeatable today.  Well, unbeatable in their minds.  I knew we were going to win.  We HAD to win.  You don’t call time out with 4 seconds left to play when you are leading by 2 touchdowns, like they did;  just so you can run up the score that we supposedly don’t keep.  This team had beaten us twice; the first time by 1 point, and the aforementioned 2 touchdown defeat.  We were ready today. 

We play 6 on 6 flag football.  The Y only had enough kids for 4 teams, which is why we played this team 3 times.  They had 9 players.  We had 6.  Their kids got breaks every few plays.  Our players played the whole game.  Every play.  My ”not keeping score” tally at the end of the game was: we scored 6 touchdowns and converted 4 extra points; they scored 4 touchdowns and converted 2 extra points.  A “Real World” final score of 40-26.  My favorite statistic from the game where we don’t keep score or stats?  We ran 14 offensive plays the entire game. 

That’s not a typo.  We only ran 1 offensive play in the first quarter, yet at the end of that quarter we were up 2 TD’s to 1.  If you’re not familiar with football, the equivalent would be catching 2 mice in one trap.  Nukeboy1 intercepted a pass on their third play and ran it back for a touchdown.  Then they scored.  We got the ball back, and on our first (and last) play on offense we ran 60 yards for a touchdown.  The other coach was a bit put out by our performance, which was evident by the increased amount of spittle that was being sprayed out of his mouth. 

This guy is a condescending ”nickname giver” who got all that he deserved today.  He TOLD his parents and kids; and I quote: “Yeah, these guy’s should be pretty easy to beat; we’ve already beaten them twice, and WHEN we win NEXT week we’ll complete our unbeaten season”.   I could hear his arm break as he patted himself on the back.  Two of our parents heard his little pre-game pep talk.  Did no one learn anything from the Super Bowl?  Remember when the NY Giants actually had the gall to show up and play; and then actually beat the mighty New England Patriots?  I know quite a few bookies learned a harsh lesson that day, too bad this guy wasn’t watching. The nickname reference comes from him insisting on giving everyone a nickname.  “Purple!  You’re in!” or, “Ironman! Right end!”  Others went by “Sporty”, “Hammer” and “Skinny”.  There was absolutely no rhyme or reason to these names.  They were flag football’s version of a Spice Girls-Village People head-on collision.  If you’re going to give them nicknames, at least let it make sense!  Purple?  Ironman?  Are you going for Superheroes or Tele-tubbies?  Half the kids didn’t answer to their nicknames anyway, they were just as confused as I was.  By the end of the first game against them, I already had my nickname picked out for him; but “Gonad-Boy” doesn’t translate well with 9 to 11 year olds.  

Shaking hands after the game I heard Gonad-Boy ask; “Did you guys have, like, 10 practices since we played you last?  You guys had all the answers today”.  Luckily I was already past him and my assistant coach (the one with the patience today; we trade off) laughed it off.  I was cheering my guys as they walked through, though: “Way to go Ego-Crusher! You had 2 TD’s today!” and “Hey! Comeuppance-boy! How’s it feel to throw 7 passes, all of them completions, 3 for touchdown’s?” and “Crow Sandwich-server! Did you shake hands with Gona; er, the other coach?”  I wasn’t as spiteful as I could have been, and how Gonad-Boy usually is.  It’s about the kids; and today our kids learned what it means to play and win with dignity.  Just like they have all year.  That’s how I keep score.

The NukeVan is back in the shop.  No Air Conditioning could definitely lead to a meltdown.  We found out about this back in September, but decided not to spend the $1,200 to get it fixed right then.  Call me frugal, but it didn’t make sense.  It’s like trying to teach a pig to sing: it wastes your time and annoys the pig.  Having a perfectly operational Air Conditioner all winter would have to take a backseat to other necessities like; oh, I don’t know; food?  Electricity?  Mortgage Payments?   I told them to look for us in the spring when it would actually make sense, and the tax man had returned the money he had stolen from me (er, I mean NukeMom).

Fast forward to last Thursday when I drop the NukeVan off and confirm that they have all the information from the previous Fall.  “Oh yes sir, Mr. NukeDad!  It’s all right here in the computer.”  Good.  I went home knowing that the NukeVan would be staying overnight for observation.  Friday comes and I’m told; “Your van should be ready about 5:00pm.”  I was good with that, after all, they did have to take out the ENTIRE dashboard to get to the evaporator; the culprit in this mess.  Thank you very much Mr. Ivy League Engineering Degree Holder.  I could hear the mechanic cussing all the way over at my house.  8 to 10 hours of labor is what they estimated.  That’s how you arrive at a $1,200 repair bill; subtract the $150 charge for the parts away from the total, divide by 8 to 10 and you arrive at the reason why you should have brought your rape whistle with you.

I’m exaggerating, of course, everyone knows that you can’t buy ANY part for your car for $150.  I am, however; serious about the rape whistle.  You see, after picking up the NukeVan last Friday, I had this silly desire to turn on the Air Conditioner and make sure that it worked.  Never mind the fact that the mechanic and the service department attendant had SURELY done the same thing.  Just call me whimsical.  Within 30 seconds I was looking for my Parka.  This thing was working good!.  But, that’s when I heard the noise.  The same noise that I had described the previous fall.  The same noise that was “right here in the computer.”  The same noise that would make small woodling creatures in my neighborhood run for cover.  I’ve never actually seen or heard an F-22 Raptor take off, but it can’t sound much different than the NukeVan.  I have seen an F-4 Phantom take off, and as impressive as that is, I don’t want the neighbors calling NATO every time I pull in the driveway. 

I had way too much to get done over the weekend, and they’re closed on Sunday anyway, so I set my sites on Monday.  Then I remembered how busy Monday was going to be.  And Tuesday.  Wednesday is go have lunch at school with Nukeboy1, so today was the first chance I had to get back over there.  They knew I was coming, though.  Believe me.  Dealerships are all about “getting the feedback”.  It’s how most of them get their money from Corporate Headquarters.  I had a letter sitting on the seat of the car.  There were signs all over their shop asking you to “Please” respond to the survey.  It was on the claim ticket attached to my key.  I think they even mailed one to my Mom in Texas.  They pass out so many copies that it stupefies me why they can’t print clean copies off of their computer.  Here is a picture of the actual “letter” that was sitting on my front seat.  Hand to God, that’s what they left me.  At the very least they could teach people how to properly line up a page on a copy machine, for crying out loud.  Instead I got a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy….  Half of the text is missing!  I don’t remember them teaching us in Business letter writing class that you needed a 6 inch left margin.  Finally, there is “The Phone Call”.  I knew it was coming, and I played along.  “Do you have a few minutes to discuss your recent visit to XYZ dealership and your experience there?”  Actually, no, I don’t have the time; but I’ll make time, just this once. 

We’ve taken the NukeVan to this dealership several times, and have overall been satisfied with the service, I’m just pissed that I have to take it back again.  Did I stutter when I said “Noise under the hood?”  Did they hear “No S**t, you guys are good?”  I don’t know what they heard, all I know is what I hear.  Nukeboy2 thinks it “Sounds awesome Dad! It sounds like a Lamborghini!”  Yeah, chicks dig the mini-van that sounds like a European sports car that’s worth more than our house.  I can’t wait to hear what they’re going to tell me when they call to tell me what’s wrong with it this time.  I’m ready, though.  I have my rape whistle in my pocket, and I’m not afraid to use it.

Have you ever wanted to commit murder?  I mean, we all know it’s a sin and all, but if you could be reasonably sure that you could get away with it; would you?  No?  OK, how about this scenario then: the local sheriff deputizes you and puts you in charge of ridding the town of all the oxygen thieves that happen to reside there.  I’m talking oxygen thieves like those responsible for what you see in these pictures.  People who are so lazy that they can’t even make it the extra 4 spaces to put a shopping cart in the cart corral.  Do you see how many there are?  There are literally 18 to 20 carts that have been jacked up on that median so that these lazy asses can get home faster.  These are the same socially challenged people who would be first in line to file a claim against the store if one of these carts damaged their car. “Nope, I’m sure that’s not my cart, I put mine on the median over there.  How do I know it’s not my cart?  Oh, that’s easy, mine had the dirty diaper in it.”

Why am I so pissed about this?  Because my car was in the space you see in front of the median.  I had to move 2 carts that were resting against my car.  That’s right people, some (well, at least 2) of these air pilferers couldn’t even make it the last 3 feet to the median, let alone the final marathon 4 parking spaces to the cart corral.  This store does have cart wranglers, they just couldn’t keep up.  Got their butts kicked is what happened.  What this store needs is someone with passion, someone who takes pride in their job, someone like…well, someone like this: 

God Bless you, Alan Andrew Carter.  The country needs more young men like you.  Sure could have used your help today, though.  Where the hell were you?

We had a Sleep Number bed up until a couple of weeks ago.  While it was nirvana in the beginning, the end was bloody.   After 5 years of dutiful service, the box spring, or, what a sleep number bed uses as a box spring, decided it had had enough.  Enough of people sleeping on it, of kids jumping on it, of puppies climbing underneath it.  It just quit.  So there I was about 8 months ago, minding my own business, reading a book in bed when I heard something.  At first I thought dinner was coming back to haunt me, but then I heard the sound again, coming from under the bed.  It was a groan coupled with a creak wrapped around a screech.  And then; it happened:  two of the “support beams” of the sleep number bed gave out.  The entire upper left quadrant of the bed fell to the floor.  This was the quadrant where my head and torso resided.  I rolled onto the floor to investigate.

The construction of the “box spring”, really, just a box, of the sleep number bed is molded plastic.  It is hollow, so eventually, gravity and weight bearing are going to undermine it’s intent: to hold the bed up.   You fit together several rails, place them in your bed frame, and then place 4 flat pieces on top to form a lid.  The air mattresses goes on top of that.  Not the sturdiest of beds, but I had re-enforced it with the wooden slats that housed our old  box spring.  Guess that didn’t work. 

The collapsing of the bed became a monthly, and then, a weekly occurrence.  By the end I had re-enforced the bed with more wooden slats, gallon paint cans, and wood shims.  To no avail.  I couldn’t MacGyver it anymore, I was done.  So was the bed.  It was with great pleasure that I heaved the remnants of the sleep number bed from the top of the stairs to the cold, hard, cement garage floor.  Vengeance was mine.  It was a comfortable bed at one time, don’t get me wrong, but if you are going to get one I would suggest hiring a structural engineer and opening a charge account at Lowes or Home Depot.  You’re going to need “parts” at some point.

Common courtesy is officially dead.  It died, yesterday morning around 10:30am.  It was MURDERED by the convenience store clerk and the guy in line in front of me.  Common courtesy was born a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away and prospered through much of the early 20th century.   Common courtesy fell out of the mainstream in the 60’s but showed resurgence in the late 80’s and early 90’s.  With the popularity of gangsta-rap and the Jerry Springer Show, common courtesy again faded from view as the new millenium arrived.  In lieu of flowers, please hold the door for the next person you encounter at your favorite store or restaurant. 

You know, I don’t mind when casual clerk/customer banter goes on during the purchase, but once your purchase is final, hit the door!  I know that you’re dying to tell this clerk that you’ve known all of 2 visits about your cat’s colonoscopy, but shouldn’t you take him to dinner first?  Or, maybe learn his last name?  Or how about you, Ms. “Can you check my 27 lotto tickets to see if they’re winners”, do you really think that Friday night at 5:17pm is the best time to check those tickets?  Can’t you see the 8 people in line behind you?  Did you forget about the 6 people that were in line in front of you just a minute ago? How about checking the newspaper, or going on line.  Take some of your winnings and buy a ticket for the clue bus.

What does it say about our society that we are all in such a hurry, except when it becomes “our turn”?  You waited patiently for your turn and now you have it; don’t abuse it.  Take care of business and then let the people behind you have a chance to do the same.  AFTER the clerk has given you your total IS NOT the time to start stumbling through your purse, or to realize that your wallet is still in the car.  Be prepared.  What?  Didn’t have enough time to get your money out while the guy in front of you decided to take up smoking?  “What is a menthol?  Should I buy soft pack or hard pack? OOH! Show me the ones in the pretty red box!”  Let’s get with it people, I’ve got a Dr. Pepper in one hand, a Nutrageous in the other and a 4 year old tugging on my shirt saying: “Daddy, I have to go potty.”  I really don’t have time to listen to you and the clerk talk about what a crime it is that “Jericho” got cancelled.  Again.  Go home and start a fan club internet protest.  Again.  We have to go; literally.

As one who came of age during the 80’s, I am proud that I survived the era without owning parachute pants, or wearing a Member’s Only jacket with the sleeves pushed up.  I am even more proud of the fact that I avoided the use of the word “awesome” as my main adjective.

I thought I was free and clear, until a few months ago.   Awesome has returned to the national vernacular, only it has disguised itself as ”Amazing”.

It’s everywhere, used to describe everything.  It’s especially prevalent among the twenty-somethings.  They must be like the Eloi from the Time Machine, being shown the wheel for the first time in their lives.  Everything they describe is “amazing”.  Start listening for it, you’ll be, well, you’ll be amazed quite frankly.

Let’s teach these people what a thesaurus is for.  As for those of you reading this that are guilty of abusing this word, here are some alternatives:

1. Stunning

2. Unbelievable

3. Fascinating

No thanks is necessary.  Just take these new words and use them to supplant amazing,  for a change.  Together, we can break the cycle.

This happened a while back, so hopefully right-minded companies have corrected their menu script.  We were at a concert, a rodeo, WWF On Ice or something along those lines; at a venue that uses Aramark, Sodexo or a company like that to manage their concessions.  These are the good people that negotiate contracts with local and state governments to run the snack bars at huge arenas and stadiums, so that you can have the luxury of chomping down on $7.00 buckets of popcorn and sipping $6.00 cokes.  The venue and the event aren’t the issue, the offending company and the incident are. 

Nukeboy1 and I went to the concession stand at this event that I can’t recall, to get something to drink, and bring back some popcorn for NukeMom and Nukeboy2.  As we were standing in line I was reading the beautiful menu board, sponsored by Pepsi or Coke or whoever it was; and felt my wallet retreat further into my back pocket with each price I read.  I know I’m going to be ravaged at a place like this when I’m thirsty, but in some states, this could be considered assault.  $6.00 for a Coke?  Are you kidding me?  That was for the large size.  They had a small size for $4.50.  It’s the old “bait and switch” brought to a new level.  The small is like 12 ounces, and the large is aquarium size.  Nothing like an opportunity to “up sell” your customer.

When we finally got to the front of the line, the girl behind the counter couldn’t have looked more disinterested.  “Can I help you?” she managed.  “I’d like one small Sprite and one Large Coke, please.”  She looked at me like I had just gotten off the short bus.  “Sir, we only have Medium and Large!”  As she said this, she slowly turned her head towards the menu board, keeping her eyes on mine as if to say: “Look, it says so right here dummy”, and sure enough, on the board they were listed as Medium-$4.50 and Large-$6.00.

Now, I’m not a Rocket Surgeon, but don’t you need 3 sizes in order to have a “Medium”?  “Don’t you need 3 sizes in order to have a Medium?” I asked her.  “No, Sir.  It’s right there on the board.”  Somebody trained this girl?  Either I was irritating her, or she had heard this before.  Or, the omniscient board knew all.  I wasn’t going to give in.  “Just give me one SMALL” and I spread my hands apart in the general size of the “Medium” cup, “and a LARGE” and I made the universal gesture of “Hey! Look at me! I’m carrying a keg of beer!”.  She wasn’t very happy with me, which was obvious when we got our sodas with cracked lids and bent straws.  I signed the second mortgage to pay for them and off we went back to our seats.  This was an older arena, so they only had two seat sizes: Medium and Extra Small.

This is definitely a Peeve’s topic.  I know I’m not alone in my disdain and general loathing of those drivers who seem to think that the left lane is their own personal HOV lane.  I know the title suggests this is just about the ladies, but there are some men out there who need some re-edjukatin’ too.  Say it with me now:  The Left Lane Is The Fast Lane!  I didn’t capitalize all of the letters, so technically I’m not yelling, I’m just raising my voice a little.  I mean, come on people!  If your goal is to go 67 miles per hour and stay front-bumper-matched with the car next to you, do it when there are 3 or more lanes!  And make sure you’re in the middle one!  If you’re trying to make a moral statement about speeding, and feel that by holding people up you’re “saving lives”, just remember that the guy behind you may be trying to get to the hospital to see a sick relative.  Or, he could be trying to get to the ballgame, either way, Who Are You To Decide How Fast He Should Be Going?! 

I’m not saying that you should get out of the way so that hot-rodders can blow past you at 100 miles per hour, I’m saying that if you’re going to go 67 miles per hour (you lawbreaker, you) you have no business being in the left lane period.  Get out of the way, you’re going to get somebody hurt.  Besides, if someone is doing 100 miles per hour, the last place you want to have your 67 mph butt is in front of them.  Do you think he’s had his brakes looked at recently?  Are you willing to take that chance?  Maybe his power steering is about to go, or the accelerator is stuck.  Wouldn’t you rather be out of harms way?

The worst case scenario pulled in front of me the other day:  Woman driver (could have been a man in drag, I don’t know), steering with her knee, cell-phone in the crook of her neck, right hand applying eyeliner, and left hand waving about frantically.  She was obviously making her point to the person on the other end of her cell phone.  I really don’t think she even realized she was operating a motor vehicle.  In her mind, I think she was seated comfortably behind her desk at work.  “I don’t care if they’re beige, as long as they’re size 6!”  Pulling in front of me wasn’t the issue, slowing down to 53 miles per hour and staying even with the 18 wheeler in the right lane was.  We were going up a hill, mind you, and her awareness was fading by the moment.  She was like an Allstate commercial on crack.  All she needed to do was pull out her laptop, and she would have been crowned Queen of the Clueless.

 I eventually got by her, 2 counties later.  The line of cars behind me reminiscent of the closing scene from “Field of Dreams”.  Now it was like Daytona.  The CRX behind me was drafting, so a quick tap of the brakes sent him 3 car lengths back.  But it cost me.  I didn’t see the Acura coming up on my right until it was too late (how did he get around Estee Lauder so fast?), and he passed me in a flash.  Begrudgingly I put on my right blinker and yielded the fast lane to those with a higher purpose than I.  Besides, I was already doing 80, these people were just nuts!  As I checked the review mirror, I could see headlights weaving, darting, jockeying for position.  Brothers in arms, all.  Oh, I made it to the game in time.  Hurricanes won 5-1.