Quick Thoughts: Helmets and Parenting
Last night while watching the first Monday Night Football game of the season, it occurred to me: if I ever have a kid that is clumsy and needs to wear a helmet at all times, for reasons medical or otherwise, I’m not going to put him in a stupid foam or bike helmet as most parents do. I’m going to have him wear a football helmet. It’s much cooler looking and will protect his face and grill much better than a cheap foam helmet. Plus, you could paint a kickass logo on the side, like a turtle with a flamethrower or something. Now, I can imagine some people saying that this idea is a no-brainer or even offensive, but I think that it’s the type of innovative parenting that the new millenium needs. I’m just saying.
Quick Thoughts: “The Terminal”
As I was driving my car today, something compelling occurred to me: I have never and will never see “The Terminal”. Why? Because it’s based around three things that I loathe with a passion: Fat self-important Tom Hanks, Airports, and fake Russian accents. Seriously, I’d rather eat glass. Why I just realized this today, I’ll probably never know.
Raising Your Very Own Ninja
On Thursday, I ate lunch at the mall with some coworkers and there was a TV showing the national spelling bee. We got talking about it and the great movie Spellbound. In the movie, one of the kids is seen being drilled by his parents with something like 5000 practice words daily. It's a pretty freaky thing and it raises the question: What kind of parent raises a kid like that? The answer: A crazy one.
Of course, such aggressive parenting isn't confined to the spelling bee. The image of a controlling parent pushing their kid to the point of misery is a common one in little leagues, soccer games, piano recitals, and a myriad of other activities. Sure, it's cool to have a kid that kicks ass at things so that you can brag about them and shit, but if you're going to push them hard enough to cause long-term psychological harm, at least do it for something really rad.
My suggestion? Ninjitsu.
Think about it: not only do you get a cute talented kid that you can brag about to your buddies, but you get a DEADLY WEAPON as well. You would feel all proud like you would if your kid gave you a great finger painting, but the difference is at the end of the day you can also count on that finger painting to KICK SOME ASS if push comes to shove.
Think about this: it's easy to imagine a kid whining and putting up a fit because they don't want to go to piano lessons, but I don't think any kid could honestly say "Dad, I don't want to go to ninja lessons today." Duh. Like anyone would want to miss learning how to throw a ninja star or wield nunchuks.
Think about the water cooler conversations you could have. Some jackass could be going on and on about how his little girl learned how to play "Hot Cross Buns" on her violin and you could be all like "Oh yeah? Well my little Bobby killed a raccoon with his MIND!"
If you're still not convinced, consider the great bumper stickers you could make:
Or perhaps:
I'm going to be the best dad ever.
“The A-poon-tice”
This past weekend, I was hanging out with a friend who through some dumb luck and good fortune attended a party at the Playboy Mansion awhile back. He described a place not much different than my "happy place", where incredibly attractive women mingled with and outnumbered average-looking douchebags and every building and room was seemingly designed solely for the purpose of seduction and hangin' out in flagrante delicto.
Obviously, we're all familiar with the famous grotto, but apparently there's also a stone "outhouse" full of bathrooms, though not the kind you might find at a campground or county fair. Instead, this one contains multiple "stalls" — each one equipped with a two-headed shower, a daybed, vanity/sink, and, of course, a toilet (rumors of the love toilet's presence have not been confirmed). There is also a "game room" building equipped with pool tables, tvs, and multiple arcade games, but its real offering is multiple private TV rooms. Each of these TV rooms is smallish — measuring roughly 10 x 10 — and has a huge flatscreen on the wall. The floor of the room is covered in pillows of assorted shapes and sizes. This, in itself, isn't that remarkable… until you step down into the room and realize that the entire floor is one giant mattress and the ceiling is one giant mirror — sort of like a hybrid moonwalk/home entertainment system designed for "the bangin'". Oh yeah — and they have a zoo with a bunch of monkeys. One of them is probably even named "Captain Jumpy Ninja" or something rad like that.
Anyway, this got me thinking. Hugh Hefner has arguably the most kickass life of any American male. He's worth millions, has multiple hot blonde girlfriends, and lives in one of the most amazing houses ever — the Playboy Mansion is to corn-fed heterosexuals what the Neverland Ranch is to pedophiles. The only problem is, Hef is getting OLD — like fossil old. He founded the magazine some 53 years ago, which by my rough calculations makes him only slightly younger than Benjamin Franklin would be were he still alive today, not to mention the fact that he's gone from a James Bond clone to looking like a piece of chewed up Bubblicious. Observe:
At some point, the man is going to have to pass on the reigns. He's spent a lifetime building his mystique and it would be a shame to see it go to waste. That's why I think he needs to hold a competition similar to Donald Trump's "The Apprentice". Think about it — they made a top-rated TV show out of the idea that some folks would like to follow in the footsteps of a cheesedick with circus-bad hair and a doofy inflection. Surely Hef could start a revolution by doing the same with his empire.
Now I understand that the man has children of his own including several male heirs, but simply handing things over to them would be boring. Besides, they've already had a lifetime of hanging out at the mansion with beautiful naked women and monkeys. I say, step aside and let a worthy successor emerge. How would you decide who's worthy? Why through a series of ingenious trials and tasks, of course.
For example, you might have a contest to see who could walk into a crowd of total strangers and convince a beautiful 19-year-old woman whose turnoffs include "cold weather and bad breath" to writhe around a faux apple orchard in her birthday suit for a photo shoot. Or date three woman at once without at least one of them crying hysterically on a daily basis, boiling your pet rabbit, or attacking your Johnson with hedge clippers. Or take an ordinary room and turn it into a "happy place" of equal parts grade-school birthday party and romantic getaway (like the bangin' Moonwalk). Perhaps its even as simple as seeing if any of the contestants look darn good wearing a velvet robe and smoking a pipe.
What's more, you could even charge an entry fee and raise roughly a kabillion dollars. Think about it — multiple jackasses have spent as much as $20 million to go into outer space. If I had the choice between doing the astronaut thing or walking a mile in Hef's shoes, I know which one I'd choose — and I doubt I'm alone. How much would you pay? $1000? $1 million? With enough dudes ponying up for the chance at the title, you could raise enough money to build another bigger, better, even more rad mansion — with 10 times the monkeys! Hell — you could probably buy an island and start your own sovereign state dedicated to advancing the cause of single men and busty stripper pirates everywhere. I know I'd want to live there.
My Monday was less rad than your Monday
I went home to McHenry (home of the Rat-tail) this past weekend to put in some quality time with my parents and help them out with some things around the house. Before my planned departure back into the city on Monday morning, I went down into the basement to go through some boxes of my stuff. It was then that I was greeted by several inches of standing sewer water spread through about half of the basement.
You see, we have several maple trees in our front yard, one of which likes to assert itself by waiting until late November to drop its leaves and occasionally running roots into the main sewer line of our house. Every couple of years, the line becomes a might bit clogged, but this was the first time that its contents had actually backed up into the house.
My mom sprung into action with the wet-vac and I ran out to Ed’s Rent-All to pick up a motorized sewer auger. “What’s a motorized sewer auger” you ask?
It’s a small, wheeled device that turns a flexible cable with a bit on the end designed to drill through poo as opposed to the more traditional “wood” or “earth”. You feed said bit and cable into the offending sewer-line, inserting additional 8-foot sections of cable until eventually you chew the clog up and the line runs again. It’s not unlike wildcattin’ — but for stool instead of Texas gold.
So anyways, after about 1 hour and 48 feet of cable, the “pilot drill” that I sent down hit something, hesitated for a second, and then heroically continued on as all of the drains in the basement begin gurgling to life and the “brown tide” receded. Having dealt a withering blow to the obstructing roots, I decided to finish the job off with ol’ ST-2 cleaning bulb attachment. Of course, I first had to throw the “Electric Eel” into reverse and withdraw the cable section by section.
Now, you’re probably asking “but Drew, wouldn’t a flexible cable being withdrawn from a sewer line while spinning at 500 RPM tend to spray stink and sick everywhere, like some sort of fetid Willy Waterbug?”
Yup. Very much so.
After another hour of drillin’ poo, my confidence in the pipe’s ability to safely deliver wastewater to the sewer was restored. I packed the auger into the back of my car and returned it to Ed’s Rent-All. “You know, we also rent out carpet cleaners” the man behind the counter snickered as he handed me my receipt. Truly Ed’s sense of humor was as versatile and effective as his rental wares.
