I Want To Die Of Something Cool

There is a new blog. You can read it on my website at:

www.caseysuniverse.com

If you want to make a comment on it, you can email it to me at:

caseysuniverse@gmail.com

Now, go read.

Thanks,

Casey

Zombies Don't Run...Duh!

New blog up, today. You can find it at my website.

www.caseysuniverse.com

Then, if you are so inclined, you can comment on it by sending an email to caseysuniverse@gmail.com

Thanks.

Casey

Searching For Satellite

There is a new blog up. It is the not-too-much-anticipated SKEEEERY BLOG........Boo.

You can find it in the "blog" section of my website. www.caseysuniverse.com

If you would like to leave any comments about it, good or bad, you can do it at caseysuniverse@gmail.com

Please enjoy....Or not....

Casey

Why, Yes, I Was Bored. Thank You For Asking.

Okay, there is a new blog up. If you would like to read it, just go to my website. www.caseysuniverse.com

If you wanna comment on it, you can do it here. The more hateful ones still amuse me. :)

Enjoy,

Casey

The Curious Case Of Casey Bartholomew

The new blog can be found in the "blog" section of my new website:

www.caseysuniverse.com

Please go there and enjoy.

I love you all, the way people love pictures of kittens.

Casey

Never Wake Up Before God...

I don't like getting up early.

At all.

Never.

Not for anything.

If Carrie Underwood herself came to my room, at 4am, wearing an "Emily Babydoll," from Frederick's of Hollywood (sheer mesh, with petite black bow at the pleated bust. Underwire cups feature foam padding for lift and shape. Matching panty. Nylon/spandex. Imported!!), and begged me to have my way with her, I would probably ask her to come back in a few hours.

You probably think that I'm crazy. But, if Carrie Underwood were willing to leave her current tour, put on an "Emily Babydoll" (It's real. Swear to God), and come to MY house at 4am, I bet she would be willing to wait a couple more hours. Clearly she thinks I'm worth it. I mean, I'M NOT. But, she doesn't know that, yet. She just got here.

Anyway, my son does NOT take after me. I know this because HE got up at 4am, Sunday, and thought nothing of it. He was wide awake, and full of energy. Hell, HE probably would have let Carrie Underwood stay. It wouldn't have been the same, though. He just would have wanted to play "Pat-A-Cake" with her. Dumb kid. He's got Carrie Underwood, right there, in lingerie and all he wants to do is play "Pat-A-Cake." I'm gonna have to have a talk with that boy.

So, he wakes up at 4am, and it was MY turn to get up with him. I know this because my wife kept kicking me in the back, and telling me that it was my turn. I thought about arguing. But, she'd already been kicking me in the back. I was afraid of what might happen if I started talking back. So, I got up.

At 4am God isn't even awake. The sun is not out. Plus, and probably worst, there is NOTHING on TV. It wouldn't have mattered if there was. My son, Max, was AWAKE. When Max is awake, things are okay. When Max is AWAKE nothing, not even the nuclear codes, are safe.

Being a responsible parent, I determined that my 12 month old son doesn't watch nearly enough TV. I also thought it would be cute to Tivo several episodes of a show called "Max and Ruby."

Max!! Get it!?!!

Cute, huh?

Yeah, no one else thought so, either. But, I tried.

Anyway, "Max and Ruby" is a story about brother and sister rabbits named.....Ready?......Max and Ruby. Genius!!! Max is a little boy rabbit, who doesn't speak much. Every so often he will shout out an random word. Usually it's an object that he sees. I imagine that this is not unlike what someone with a traumatic brain injury does. But, Max is just a baby bunny. So, I think he's okay. His sister, Ruby, takes care of him, and treats him more like a doll. I'm not 100% sure, but I believe that Max and Ruby have been abandoned by their parents, because you never see them. We have not, as of yet, reached the point where the house runs out of food, and Max and Ruby have to eat their own flesh in order to survive. I'm sure it's coming. But, we're not there, yet. So, everything is still happy.

I just decided that NOW, at 4am, was the time to get my son interested in TV. So, I plopped him down in the family room, and turned on what was to become a 2-hour, "Max and Ruby" marathon.

YAY, FOR ME!!!!

Max was not interested. But, at 4am, I was enthralled.

The first episode was about how Ruby wanted to have a tea party. However, in a clever plot twist, TV-Max wanted to play ball. You could cut the tension with a knife!!!

Ruby: We're going to have a tea party, Max.

Me: Look, Max!!! They're gonna have a tea party.

TV-Max: Ball.

Me: Uh-oh. It looks like Max, the bunny, wants to play ball. Could get a little dicey.

Real Max: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Real Max, my son, was attempting the leave the family room, and get into the laundry room. He yells when he does this. Sort of a "Braveheart," yell-for-freedom, kind of thing. So, I had to get up, close the laundry room door, and put up the gate that keeps Real Max from going down the hall. When I came back, TV-Max was very happily playing ball.

Me: Aw!!! What happened?

I could have just rewound it. But, I believe in forward momentum, you see. Plus, I was REALLY tired, and my brain wasn't working right.

In our next episode, TV-Max wanted to swing. But, Ruby was afraid that he was swinging too high (still no parents.) So, she decided that TV-Max should play ball instead. This was wise on her part since, as we had established in a previous episode, TV-Max LIKES to play ball.

TV-Max: Swing.

Ruby: No, Max. You swing too high. Why don't you play ball, instead?

TV-Max: SWING!!!

Me: Uh-oh. It's gonna get ugly, in a minute. You better pay attention, Maxie.

Ruby: No swinging, Max. Here, you take this ball and play. I'll be inside.

TV-Max (kicks the ball away): Swing.

Me (laughing): This IS NOT gonna end well.

Real Max: Ahhhhhhhhh......

He was eating dry cat food, out of the cat dish.

It's funny. Just the other day I was thinking that his coat was looking EXTRA shiny.

So, I had to dig all the cat food out of his mouth, wipe off his hands, and put up the OTHER gate that keeps him from getting into the kitchen where we keep the cat food.

When I got back, TV-Max was happily swinging, and the ending music was starting to play.

I'm glad these things are Tivoed, so that I can watch them, later.

I also didn't get to see how TV-Max was able to get the wheel on his truck fixed. This was because Real-Max was ripping up my wife's favorite magazine, and eating it (I'm sure I'll get kicked for that, later.)

I didn't get to see whether or not TV-Max was able to figure out a way to open his birthday presents early, because Real-Max had pulled the phone out of the wall, and was attempting to smash it into submission.

And, I did not get to see whether or not TV-Max was able to plant HIS garden, the way HE wanted to, without the help of that bossy, dominating witch, Ruby, telling him how SHE thought he should do it. This bothered me. It was, after all HIS garden. What business was it of hers?

I'm glad I NEVER had a big sister.

On top of that, I was exhausted.

At around 7am, my wife came downstairs and saw cat food all over, the laundry room door shut, and her magazine, in shreds, on the floor.

My Wife: WHAT have you been doing all morning!?!!

Me (annoyed): Well, I haven't been having sex with Carrie Underwood, that's for damn sure!!

With that, I stumbled back upstairs, and went back to bed.

If Carrie swings by, in an "Emily Babydoll" (I'd prefer black. But, lavender would be good, too), I'm going to let her stay.

At the very least, I bet she wouldn't kick me. But, if she did, I bet I would kinda like it.

Casey

To Serve And Annoy....

There are 4 types of waiters/waitresses in the world. Actually, there may be more than 4. But, for purposes of this conversation, I have narrowed them down to 4. If you would like to expand the list, go get your own blog. This is my blog, so there are only 4. Deal with it.

They are:

The Good Waiter/Waitress

These are the ones who take your order, make sure your drink is filled, bring you your food as fast as they can, or at the very least let you know what the status is, and then bring you your check in a timely manner. They get a big tip. Sometimes, I may even hug them. Don't hold your breathe on that one, though. I hug VERY few people. But, there aren't that many good waiters/waitresses in the world. So, in a moment of weakness, I may press my body against them. Don't read anything into it.

The Bad Waiter/Waitress

These people just plain suck. They are rude. They hate their job. They hate you for making them do their job. They get the order wrong, but expect you to eat it anyway. Then, when you have the nerve to ask for a drink refill, they make it seem as though you have asked them for a vital organ. These people, much to the embarrassment of my wife, get NO TIP. Zero. Nothing. I don't care about how little money they make. If they want to make more money, they should do a better job. If they did, they would get bigger tips, and make more money. So, as far as I'm concerned, they can suck it.

Waitresses Who Make A Fuss Over Your Baby

Please note that I said WAITRESSES. Not WAITERS. Waiters who make a fuss over your baby come off as either creepy, or gay. Or, even worse, the dreaded gay/creepy combination. You can imagine them giving away balloons, at the park, just because. They don't have kids of their own. They just want to give balloons to all the kiddies. It creeps me out. But, when you have a waitress, they can tell you how cute your baby is, and talk to them, and smile at them. This works especially good on moms. Particularly NEW moms. They can even be a lousy waitress. Your kid could be ugly. They could bring a big, rare steak to a vegitarian. As long as they make goo-goo eyes at your baby, they will get a nice tip. Like I said, I think it's a chick thing.

The Waiter Who Will Try to Engage You About Sports To Try And Pad Their Tip
God forbid you wear ANY sports paraphenalia when you land this dork. He will chew your ear off, because he happens to be an expert on sports. Even though you are there to enjoy a meal with your family, the "Sports Guru" will make everyone else wait while he shares his encyclopedic knowledge about a local sports team with you. Hell, he will make your FOOD wait, while he tells you about a game he went to when he was 4. He a dork, and you just want him to go away. He will get the bare minimum tip.

It was the last guy that I ended up with, when I took my family out, the other night. In truth, it was my fault. I mean, what was I thinking when I put my Jets hat on? Clearly, I wanted to have a detailed conversation about EVERY JETS GAME THAT EVER TOOK PLACE, when I decided to wear my hat, and take my family out to get food. So, really, it was all my fault.

I could tell RIGHT when he started talking.

Waiter: Jets fan, huh?

Me: Huh? Oh, the hat. No, not a huge fan. Just wanted a hat, and this one fit.

Waiter: Cool. Who was thier coach when they won the Super Bowl?

Me: Uhhh....I dunno. Like I said, I'm just wearing the hat.

Waiter: Whaddya think of Sanchez?

Me: Uh, well, he's good. I'm a big USC fan. I'm from Southern California. So, I hope he does well.

Waiter: Yeah, could be the year, huh?

Me: I...Uh...I dunno.

Then, he went away, and I was happy. It had been a long week, and I wasn't going to see my daughter this weekend, because she's going camping with the girl scouts. So, I just wanted some family time, with my little girl. This was not going to happen, however, with Super Fan waiting my table.

He came back to get our drink order.

Waiter: Weeb Ewbank.

Me: What?

Waiter: Weeb Ewbank.

Me: Okay....

Waiter: He was the coach when they won the Super Bowl.

Me: Uh...Okay.

Waiter: Beat the Colts.

Me: Yeah....

Waiter: But, you already knew that, huh?

Me: Actually, I think I might have.....

Waiter: Namath made that prediction.

Me: Yeah....

Waiter: Broadway Joe.

Me: Uh, yeah.

Waiter: What can I get you to drink, Namath?

Me: I...Uh...Namath?

Waiter: Yeah, Broadway Joe.

Me: Uh....I'll just have a diet coke.

Waiter: Gotta maintain your playing weight, huh Namath?

Me: Sure.

Then, he went away. And, for the rest of my meal, I would be referred to as "Namath." You see, since I was wearing my Jets hat, I was CLEARLY a HUGE fan of the guy who won the Super Bowl, 9 months BEFORE I was born.

You got it.

There was more of the same when he brought the drinks. Instead of a lemon, my diet coke had a lime in it.

Waiter: You see that I put a lime in there, instead of a lemon?

Me: Yes, I did see that.

Waiter: Because it's green.

Me: I noticed.

Waiter: Like the Jets.

Me: Yes, just like the Jets.

Waiter: Not the same shade, but close.

Me: It is, at that.

Waiter: I got your back, Namath.

Me: Thank you. That's making me feel all warm inside.

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! I got a Jets fan, wise-ass, here. That's a good one, Namath.

Me: Thank you, so much.

And, that's the way it went. For the entire meal. Everytime he came back to our table, he would randomly spout some Jets fact, that I didn't know, or care about. It was almost as though he had "Jets-Tourette Syndrome," and it was just lucky that a guy in a Jets hat showed up, or he would have gone nuts and shot the place up.

He took our food order:

Waiter: 16-7

Me: Huh?

Waiter: 16-7. That was the score of the Super Bowl, when the Jets won.

Me: I'll be damned.

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! Yeah.....

Then, he brought us our food. Even though it was been well established that I DO NOT like vegatables, I was presented a small bowl of....Ready?.....GREEN BEANS!!!!!

Do you know WHY?

Well, because they are GREEN, of course.

And, WHO ELSE IS GREEN?

That would be the Jets.....

And, WHO is a HUGE Jets fan?

Not me. But, since I was stupid enough to wear my hat, I was being assaulted by my own waiter.

Waiter: 17 for 28, for 206 yards.

Me: Let me guess.....Uhhhh....Were those Namath's stats for the Super Bowl?

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! Yeah, of course YOU know that. What was I thinking, huh?

Me: Yeah, after all they were MY stats. You know, since I'm Namath, and all.

Waiter: THAT'S RIGHT!! HA-HA!!! I'll get your check.

Then, he brought the check, and the "Jets-Tourettes" kicked in, again.

Waiter: Jim Turner.

Me: Jim Turner?

Waiter: Kicked 3 field goals to help win the game.

Me: Ahhh...Got the internet back there, do ya'?

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! Well, we can't ALL know everything about the Jets, like you, Namath.

Me: Yeah, just like me.

Waiter: Hey, good luck this season. You folks have a good night. Don't stiff me, Namath. I hear Jets fans are bad tippers. HA-HA!!!

I tipped him 15%, because he annoyed me, and my wife glared at me for it. On the way out, my daughter told me that he thought the waiter was weird. My daughter and I are a lot alike.

When we got out the door, there was a trash can. For just a moment I thought about throwing my Jets hat into it. But, then nobody would call me Namath, anymore, and I don't know if I want to live like that.

I'm going to start wearing my Kermit hat, again.

Casey

The Sod Man Cometh

Over the weekend I created a lot of unneccessary work for myself, simply because I am a pig-headed, overly-contrary, pain in the ass.

Are we clear?

Good.

You see, the weather was nice for the first time in, what felt like, a hundred years. So, my wife was making me....Yes, MAKING ME.....do yard work. This involved buying several thousand bags of something called "mulch," and then dumping it into my various planters and flower beds. I don't know what "mulch" is. When it's in a bag, it looks like a bag filled with a chopped up tree. Unless, of course, you buy colored "mulch," which we did. In this case, when it's in a bag, it looks like a bag filled with a tree that you chopped up, and then poured color all over it. Just like God intended it.

Anyway, we bought ALL the black colored "mulch" in the greater South Jersey area. Then we (and by "we" I mean "I") put it onto a flatbed cart, at our local Home Depot. This was neccessary for two reasons. First, because there were several thousand bags, and I would not have been able to carry all of them. Second, because I needed to be able to knock over as many displays of hornet spray as possible, and I would not have been able to do that if I had not had a convenient, flatbed cart, that lacked the ability to turn.

Still with me?

Good.

Now, our OTHER major problem, aside from our current "mulch" not being black, was that there were several bare spots, in our backyard grass. This is due mainly to the fact that I have retired racing greyhounds, as pets, and when we got them we neglected to tell them that they were, in fact, retired. So, they race around my pool, and tear up the grass. Greyhounds, you see, are evil dogs, from the depths of Hell, who refuse to allow me to have a green lawn. One more small victory for Satan.

While we were at Home Depot stumbled upon a small stack of "sod." I didn't REALLY know what "sod" was, either. I suppose that it can best be described as "grass carpet." Anyway, I didn't really know what it was, and didn't really know what to do with it. But, it SEEMED a lot easier than buying a bunch of grass seed, letting the birds eat it, and NOT having grass where I wanted it.

Me: Let's buy some sod.

My Wife: No.

Me: I think it would be easier than buying seed.

My Wife: No.

Me: It's cheap.

My Wife: NO!!

Me: But, I wanna try it.

My Wife: Do you know how to put it down?

Me: No. But, how hard could it be?

My Wife: I wish I had married a man.

Me: I think I could do it.

My Wife: I doubt it. Let's go over here. There are a couple of displays you haven't knocked over yet. Then, maybe we can get ice cream.

Me: Ice cre......Wait......No. I wanna get sod.

My Wife: No.

Me: I'm going to hold my breath.....

As this was going on, an older woman walked up who looked as though she was permanently sucking on a very sour lemon. She started glaring at me. She didn't say anything, at first. She just glared.

Woman: My husband is coming.

Me: Oh....uh....Good. I was wondering.

Woman: We are thinking of buying this sod.

Me: Oh, yeah? So are WE!!

My Wife: No we aren't.

Me: Stop it.

Woman: Well, I'm afraid you can't buy it.

Me: Can't?

My Wife: Oh, no.....

Woman: Yes. You cannot. We are thinking about buying it, so you can't.

Me: Can't?

My Wife: Please don't......

Woman: Once my husband gets here, he will explain it to you.

Me: So, your husband will come here, and tell me that I "CAN'T" buy this very sod, which the people at Home Depot have marked as being for sale?

Woman: Yes. He will be very upset, if you buy any of it, so I'm afraid that I can't let you.

Me: Can't "LET" me!?

Woman: No.

My Wife: Here we go........

Me: So, your husband is the Prime Minister of Sod, here in South Jersey, huh? And he has, by royal order, decided that I, me, Casey Bartholomew, "CAN'T" buy this particular sod, huh?

My Wife: Please....Just....Stop.

Woman: I don't care for your tone, sir. He will be here, at any moment, and he will be VERY upset if you purchase this sod.

Me (starting to pick up pieces of sod): Well, ma'am, you just tell your husband that, if we wishes to discuss it with me, I'll be right over there at the cash register, paying for MY SOD!!!!

My Wife: I'm taking the kids to the car. Congratulations on winning your little war.

Me: Thank you.

Then, since I could not see around my huge, flatbed cart, I knocked over a display of grass seed.

Ironic.

After paying, I got glared at by the woman who was walking by with some guy I assumed to be her husband.

That's right! I thought. Keep walking, pal!!
Actually, I should have asked him to help me get it out to my car. It was heavy. Also, I probably could have asked him what to do with the stuff, once I got it home.

First, it was gross. It had worms in it. Which means that I was putting worms IN MY CAR!!!!

It was, to use a technical term, "Icky."

But, I put it in my car, with my colored pieces of "mulch" wood, and drove it home. Then, I had to unload 15 rolls of it, and carry the worm-filled stuff into the back yard. I could have used more. But, you see, I only wanted to buy SOME of the sod. That way there would still be some left, but not nearly enough for the evil, sour-faced woman, and her husband to buy.

It was a hollow victory. But, at this point, I'll take what I can get.

So, I took the stuff into the backyard, and looked at it. I didn't know what to do with it. I could have gone in, and looked online. But, I had worm dirt all over me, and my wife wouldn't let me in.

I picked up a piece, walked over to a bald spot int he grass, and rolled it out.

Done.

Then, I picked up another one, and rolled it out.

I was developing a rythmn, now.

I did this with all 15 pieces. Rolled them out, over empty patches, and then stared at it.

There HAD to be more.

Did I need to nail it down, maybe?

It can't just lay there, can it?

I could see the worms.......Gross.

So, I turned the hose on, and watched it. It didn't do anything, but I watched it anyway. I really need to get a life, of some kind.

My wife finally let me back in, and I was able to determine that I needed to water it, often, for two weeks. By then, I should know. I also read something that said that, in my current situation, it would have been better to "over seed."

NOW they tell me.

Of course, even that didn't allow for the evil, sour-faced, demon woman who PRACTICALLY DARED ME TO BUY ALL THAT SOD.

So, really, it will all be her fault, if it doesn't work.

At least, that's what I told my wife.....Who has since informed me that I am no longer allowed to go to Home Depot.

Casey

Video Blog....Coolness.

Okay, this link SHOULD take you to my video blog. It could also take you to a website run by a secret, mind control agency hell bent on taking over the world. Either way, your life will probably be ruined once you check it out.

Enjoy....ish.

http://gallery.me.com/kficasey/100000

Let's Do The Hannah, Again....

“Hannah Montana” is the new “Rocky Horror.”

I know of which I speak.

So, that means that every guy who went to midnight showings of “Rocky Horror,” dressed in black lingerie and a curly black wig, is going to have to alter their lifestyle, a bit. Now, you’re going to have to pick up a blonde wig, blue jeans, and a glittery jacket. On the plus side, as if NOT having to look at large men in women’s underwear is not enough of a plus, you will get more sleep. I’m just assuming that midnight showings of “Rocky Horror,” will be replaced by noontime showings of “Hannah Montana.”

So, you know…..Good luck with that.

I know this, because I was one of the “lucky” parents who got to go see the new “Hannah Montana” movie. I got to spend $17, on two tickets, and $32 on 2 hotdogs, a medium popcorn, a box of Junior Mints, a small tray of soft “pretzel bites,” a bottle of water, and a medium diet coke. $49 on a trip to the movies, with my little girl. On the plus side, though, I did get a free pack of “Hannah Montana” trading cards. So, you know, there’s THAT. But, they did try and cheat me out of those.

Ticket Seller: I’m supposed to give a pack of these with every ticket. But, you don’t want one, do you?

Me: I just spent $17, on two tickets, to a “G” rated movie……GIVE….ME….MY….HANNAH…MONTANA…TRADING…CARDS…RIGHT…FREAKING…NOW!!!

Ticket Seller: Whatever, dude.

Me (smiling): Thank you.

As we walked into the theater, there were several young lads, in gang attire, using the colorful kind of “street” language that I would just as soon my 9 year old daughter NOT hear. THEY were all going to see “Fast & Furious,” I suppose. When I shot them dirty looks, so that they wouldn’t use bad language in front of my little girl, they kinda laughed at me. I guess my “Kermit The Frog” hat just doesn’t inspire fear in the hearts of 15 year olds, wearing White Sox hats, turned to the side. Though, I still think I look cooler. I don’t wear MY hat sideways. I don’t care if it has a frog on it, or not.

Anyway, we got into the theater. I have to say something, here, about going to see a kids movie. This may shock AND surprise you. But, when you go to see a kids movie, there are better-than-average odds that you are going to see a large number of kids there. You expect this. Also, when there are a lot of kids in one place, don’t be surprised if they can’t all be totally silent. That’s okay. They’re kids. It’s our job, as parents, to teach them to shut their pie holes, at a movie. So, I was more than a little surprised when the bimbo in front of me had her cell phone go off. Then, I was even more shocked when she answered it, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF A PIVOTAL PLOT POINT!!! (Miley was late for Lilly's sweet 16, and had to show up as Hannah, because she didn't have time to change, and ended up taking all the attention away from Lilly......So, you can see why I was so upset about this.)

So, in order to teach this woman a lesson, I was forced.....FORCED I TELL YOU....to kick the back of her chair.....hard.......twice.......Which was when she spun around in her chair, and glared at me.

"I am SOOOOOO sorry," I said. " I was just so excited about the movie, and couldn't stop my leg."

It got loud in the theater, but I'm pretty sure she called me an a*@hole. It's okay, though, because she got off her phone, which is what I wanted in the first place. So, I win. Yay, me. Now, I could watch "Hannah Montana" in peace......

Wait.....Did I really "win" that one?

Hmmm.....Lemme get back to you on that.

Anyway, at one point during the movie, Miley and her family go to a country dance. Miley was encouraged to get up and sing. She does so, reluctantly, saying that she's going to "add a little hip-hop." This makes perfect sense, for two reasons: 1) Because EVERYONE knows that Hannah Montana is the textbook definition of "ghetto," and 2) Because when you get a bunch of farmers around, at a country music show, they want NOTHING MORE than to hear a little hip-hop.

Word to your mother.

So, Miley gets up and starts sining the "hip-hop" song, which the local country band seems to know, and starts to do some sort of pop/hip-hop/Disney-inspired/country line dancing song.

Okay, I thought. It's a G-rated, Disney movie. I wasn't expecting "Citizen Kane," or anything.
Then, we had our "Rocky Horror" moment.

As soon as Miley started singing her country/rap fusion, something like 20-30 girls ran up to the front of the theater, and started doing the dance that she was "rapping" about.

HOLY CRAP!!! ARE THEY TRYING TO DISNEY-FY EVERYTHING!?!!

Now, I'm not a "Rocky Horror" fan. I mean, I'm fine with it. I've been to it. I found it odd. But, I never really got into it. In fact, when I went to see it I was 16 and had never heard of it. A bunch of my friends said that they wanted to, "Go see a midnight showing of 'Rocky,'" and wanted to know if I wanted to come.

"Sure," I said. "I still think that's the best of the 'Rocky'" movies."

See, I was a tad bit stupid, when I was 16.

So, you can imagine my shock when we showed up, and there were men dressed in women's underwear. Having never worn women's underwear, I found this odd. I also thought it was odd when I got searched before going in.

Theater Guy: Open your coat.

Me: Why?

Theater Guy: I need to search you.

Me: For what?

Theater Guy: Toast.

Me: Toast?

Theater Guy: Yeah, toast.

Me: Of course.

Later on, when I got hit in the back of the head with a piece of toast that someone had managed to sneak through the TSA-style security, I understood the need for the shakedown. Of course, one of the big moments in "Rocky Horror" (not, I repeat NOT, "Rocky") is when everyone jumps up to do "The Time Warp." I thought that was funny, and I appreciated it. I just wasn't expecting that type of thing at a Friday evening performance of "Hannah Montana."

Clearly, the Disney corporation is attempting to capture that type of lighting in a bottle, with the "Hannah" franchise. It all makes perfect sense, when you consider the group dancing scene.

Do you need MORE evidence that Disney is trying to turn "Hannah Montana" into the new "Rocky Horror?"

I thought you might.

I cite one Mr. Barry Bostwick.

Not only is he one of the main characters in "Rocky Horror." BUT, he is also the bad guy in "Hannah Montana."

SHOCKING!!!!

AND, he was sex with a male, transvestite in BOTH movies!!!!

Okay, I made that last part up.........Or, did I? They don't actually get into his sex life, in "Hannah." He may, VERY WELL, be having sex with male transvestites, and we just didn't see it.

So, there!!!

Now, go turn in your black lingerie, you men out there, and turn them in for your OFFICIAL "Hannah" wig..........But, keep the toast. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, I always say.

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to go put my "Hannah Montana" trading cards up on ebay. I'm hoping to make enough money to buy that 90 minutes of my life back.

Casey

Thank Satan For Little Girls

I have been shot at.

I have SCUBA dived with sharks.

I was in a car, once, that burst into flame.

I was trapped in Los Angeles, in 1992, during the riots. Buildings were being burned down around me, small arms fire was going off, and the National Guard had to take up a position protecting the radio station that I was trapped in.

Nothing.....

NOTHING has caused me more stress than the slumber party that my daughter threw, at my house, Saturday night.

6 innocent LOOKING 9 year old girls descended upon my house, starting at 6 pm. They smiled, and kissed their parents goodbye. I thought to myself, This is going to be cute. This is a sweet group of girls. This was a good idea.
I could not have been MORE wrong.

When the last parent dropped off the last girl, and the door shut, I turned to face the little angels. But, the girls had vanished. They were replaced by 6 of the most horrible demons, from the darkest depths of Hell. Their innocent little eyes had been replaced by orbs of flame, which were now shooting directly into my skull. I went from wondering what fun games I was going to play with these precious little snowflakes, to wondering if I was going to live to see another day.

It all started off innocently enough. We had decided to feed the girls pizza. Harmless, right? Well, it should have been. A smart person would have used a coupon, and ordered pizza from one of the approximately 7,236 pizza places that are within a mile of my house.

Not me.

Nope.

We were going to MAKE pizza. We bought pizza dough, and grated cheese, and mushrooms, and sauce, and pepperoni, and olives, and onions. It was, dare I say, GENIUS!?!!! One would think. But, one also needs to have his head examined.

Me: Did everyone roll their dough?

Girl #1: Mine's not round.

Me: That's okay. It doesn't have to be round.

Girl #1: HERS is round.

Me: Oh...Uh...Okay. Let me see if I can get yours round.

Girl #2: I'm making mine square.

Girl #3: I'm making mine shaped like a heart.

Girl #4: I'm making mine like an "S," 'cuz that's what my name starts with.

Girl #5: I don't want a round one, anymore. Can I do mine over?

Me: Well, yeah. I guess so.

Girl #5: Good. I want mine shaped like a horse.

Me: A horse? Do you know how to do that?

Girl #5: I'm gonna let YOU do it.

Me: You're gonna let ME do it?

Girl #2: Will you make my square one, too?

Girl #3: And my heart one?

Girl #4: And make my "S," too.

Girl #1: I don't want a round one, anymore. I want a kitty.

Me: Uhhhhhhhhhh....................I'll..........Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.........I don't.........

Girl #6: I don't like pizza.

Me: Uh...Okay. Do you want a grilled cheese?

Girl #6: Yes, please.

Me: Okay. That'll be easy.

Girl #6: Shaped like a puppy.

Me: Shaped like a puppy?

Girl #6: Yes, please.

Me: I don't.........uhhhhh.......

Then, they all ran downstairs to scream, in unison. Apparently, they were on some sort of VERY tight schedule, and if they didn't get downstairs and scream, NOW, it was going to throw the entire evening off. So, they got to their screaming, while I attempted to turn common, everyday, household food items into a bizarre menagerie of animals and geometric shapes, that were to be eaten.....Though only halfway. Something in the 9 year old DNA does not allow them to finish their entire meal. They can, however, eat endless amounts of junk food. Amounts that would cause me, a 39 year old man, to puke.

And speaking of junk food, I would like to insist that ALL parents make sure that their children know whether or not they are allergic to peanuts, and thusly inform the moronic parents who decided to have a slumber party. You see, we made a variety of different cookies for the girls to snack on. One of the types was peanut butter cookies. For those of you who don't know, one of the main ingredients in peanut butter cookies is............Get Ready..........PEANUT BUTTER. Wait, it gets better.......One of the main ingredients of peanut butter is...........Anybody?.............PEANUTS. So, someone who is allergic to peanuts, would be allergic to peanut butter.

Girl: Mr. Bartholomew?

Me: Yes.

Girl: I ate a peanut butter cookie.

Me: That's okay. You can eat anything you want.

Girl: Well, there might be a problem.

Me: What's that?

Girl: Well, I MIGHT be allergic to peanuts.

Me: Well, that's okay........Wait.........What?

Girl: I might be allergic to peanuts.

Me: Uhhhhhhhhh..........

Girl: Yeah.

Me: Uhhhhhhh....Are you feeling okay?

Girl: I don't know.

Me: Uhhhhhhhh....Okay.....I can deal with this......Do you have any medication with you?

Girl: No.

Me: YOU LEFT YOUR MEDICATION AT HOME!?!!!.....Uhhhh....Okay....I'm gonna call your parents.

Girl: I don't wanna call my parents.

Me: Sweetie, we have to get your medication.....Don't touch any more cookies, okay?

Girl: I don't have any medication.

Me: I know. I'm going to call your mommy, and have her bring it. Just stay away from the cookies.

Girl: My mommy doesn't have it.

Me: Well.......WHO DOES!?!!

Girl: I don't take any medication.

Me: Well......uhhhhh......I thought you were allergic to peanuts?

Girl: Well, I THINK I might be.

Me: You think.

Girl: I saw it on TV.

Me: You saw it on TV.

Girl: Yes.

Me: But, you're not allergic.

Girl: No. But, I could be.

Me (closing my eyes): Okay.

Girl: Can I have another cookie?

Me (rubbing my temples): Yes. Just....take the bag down into the basement.

Girl: Thank you.

Me: Uh-huh.

I was also expecting these 9 year old girls to want to play some games. I'm thinking things like "Pin The Tail On The Donkey," or "Twister," or "Hide and Seek." That's the kind of stuff I did when I was 9. Of course, I also fashioned a parachute out of a bed sheet, and jumped off the roof. But, that's me. PLUS, I was a boy. Boys are dumb, and we do dumb things like jumping off the roof. I fully expect to find my son's injured body, splayed out on my front lawn, after HE makes HIS bed sheet parachute. He is, after all, MY son.

Truth be told, after the NEXT thing they did, I would have happily provided them all with sheets to jump off the roof with.

I'm not 100% certain how it all started. There was talk of boys. A LOT of talk about boys. Boys that were cute. Boys that they liked. Boys that they didn't LIKE, but that they would kiss anyway ( I know.....That last one kinda threw me, too.)

Then, there was whispering. When a group of boys gets together, and whispers, we are usually plotting some form of violence against ourselves, or others. But, boys are stupid, and they always, ALWAYS give themselves away. Again, I would have preferred violence to what came next.

They whispered.

They giggled.

They ALL looked over at me.

Then, they giggled some more, and headed back down to the basement.

So, after a while, I went down to see what they were doing. Clearly they were up to SOMETHING. As a responsible parent, it was my job to find out what it was. And, also as a responsible parent, it was my job to make sure that it, whatever "it" was, was stopped. As far as I knew, the fate of the free world depended on it.

I went downstairs, and found the girls happily drawing pictures of faces. No problem, right? Art. Girls like art. Girls are crafty. They like to do such things. NOW this was going the way that I imagined it would. We'd had pizza, and the girls were happily drawing pictures in the basement. Does it get better than that? I think not. So, I went back upstairs to watch "The Gilmore Girls." (Yes, I like "The Gilmore Girls." I like Lauren Graham. Deal with it.)

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet like they have in the movies, before the Evil Mutated Death Shark swims up, grabs you by the legs, and pulls you into the murky depths of the ocean, to eat you.

WHAT THEY HELL WERE THESE GIRLS UP TO!!?!!!!

So, I snuck downstairs.....Yes....SNUCK......SNEAKED?.....Either way. I quietly went downstairs.

When I got to the door, I heard giggling. Squealing, even.

Stealthly, I made my way down the stairs.

The squealing conintued.

Then, I made my way around the corner, to the horrible sight.

The girls had attatched the various faces they had drawn onto pillows, stuffed animals, AND a punching bag...........And, they were kissing them.......KISSING THEM!!!!!!!

"Uhhhhhhh.............STOP THAT!!!" I said.

They squealed.

The laughed.

They all ran upstairs.

Leaving me to stare at the crayon induced, make-out partners that were now scattered around my basement.

At this point, it was close to midnight. I had been trying to watch "The Gilmore Girls" for 3 hours (again, deal with it), and I was getting annoyed.

The girls were busy trying to play "Rock Band" on our Wii. So, as you can imagine, it was very peaceful in my house. A few moments later, they all filed into the living room, and wanted to watch TV. I made them all put their pajamas on, and spread their sleeping bags out on the floor.

I was beaten.

They had won.

"The Gilmore Girls" would not be completed, this evening.

I told them that the only rule was that they were not to set foot outside the house. They first one who set foot outside the house, I was going to kill. They screamed, and laughed. This turned out to be a mistake, because for the next two hours they took turns opening the front door, slamming it, and then squealing their way back into the living room while I was TRYING to sleep, upstairs.

The last noise I heard was at about 3am, and I drifted off to a none-too-peaceful sleep.

At 7am I woke up, and found the girls awake, and whispering. I was afraid to sit down, because I was worried that there would be slobber all over my couch cushions due to some impromptu make-out session, with more cartoon faces. YUCK!!

Me: We're going to make pancakes, this morning.

Girl #1: I want chocolate chip.

Me: Chocolate chip? I don't think we have any chocolate.....

Girl #2: I want blueberry,

Me: Uhhhhhhh.....blue......

Girl #3: I want strawberry.

Me: Guys, can we just decide on one.....

Girl #4: Can you put apples on mine?

Me (closing eyes): You know, guys, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, and I was wondering....

Girl #5: Do you have whipped cream?

Me: (sigh)....I don't think so.

Girl #6: Mr. Bartholomew?

Me: Yes.

Girl #6: I have a problem with pancakes.

Me: You have a problem with pancakes.

Girl #6: Yes.

Me: Okay.

Girl #3: Can you make them into shapes, again?

Me: Uhhhhhhhh.......DONUTS!!!!! WHO WANTS DONUTS!?!!

Girls (in unison): YEAH!!!!!

Me: Okay. I'll go get a dozen donuts. I'll be back......Maybe.

So, I went to the donut shop, and was going to buy a dozen donuts. I realized, of course, that if I only bought a dozen, someone was going to be sad/feel left out/be allergic to/have a problem with whatever kind I bought.......So, I bought 2 dozen. That's right, 24 donuts to feed 6 little girls.

Good thing.

They ALL took 1 or 2 bites of 3-4 different donuts, and left the sad little donut corpses on my kitchen table. When they were done, there were no donuts left. But, there was NOT ONE SINGLE COMPLETELY EATEN DONUT OUT OF THE ENTIRE 24 THAT I BOUGHT!!!! NOT ONE!!!!

At 10am, not a moment too soon, their parents started showing up, and openly wondered why the girls looked booth exauhsted, and wired, at the same time.

I wanted to punch them ALL in the mouth.

It is THE LAST slumber party that will EVER take place, in my house. It is officially somebody else's turn.

I learned that 6 against 1 are odds too great for ANY man, even if the 6 are a bunch of 9 year old girls.

I learned that women not being able to make a decision starts at a very young age.

I learned that I need to be alone when I watch "The Gilmore Girls." Or, it's not going to happen.

And, I learned that several of the girls are VERY into Aiden and Garrett. Andrew, however, is "such an Andrew."

I don't know what that means, but I don't think it's good. Sorry, Andrew.

Casey

If Harrison Ford's Chest Hair Goes, We're All Doomed!!!

My daughter just turned 9 years old. Which, of course, means that I am 9 years older, too. When she is 10, I’ll be 40. When she is 20, I’ll be 50. When she is 39, I’ll be 69!!! And, just for fun, when she is 242, I’LL be 272 YEARS OLD!!!

OH MY GOD!!!!!!

I’M GOING TO DIE!!!!

How many people do YOU know who made it to 272? Not many, I’m guessing. Which has caused me to reaccess my life. Being that I am only 39, and a very young 39 at that, this simple chart will illustrate how I have spent my time on this earth:


WHAT CASEY DID WHILE HE WAS SUCKING BACK AIR ON THIS ROCK:

30% - Watching "Monty Python"

30% - Watching "Mystery Science Theater 3000"

22% - Sleeping

17.3% - Ate Food And Food Related Things

.07% - Had Sex (With/Without Partner)


As you can clearly see, my time has not been wasted. However, I can’t help but get this nagging feeling that I should be doing more. I mean, have you SEEN Mother Teresa’s chart? You’d probably be shocked to find that SHE has spent next to no time watching Monty Python. I shudder to think about what the researchers discovered when they checked the “MST3K” section of her brain. Honestly, she probably didn’t even HAVE an “MST3K” portion of her brain. Which leads one to wonder, “Why was God punishing her?” I mean, she seemed like such a good person.

A basic viewing of the chart below will show you how little time SHE spent being dealing with the truly important aspects of life.

Yes, I’m talking about Monty Python…..

And, “MST3K”…..

And, yes, you probably aren’t going to want to stand too close to me after viewing said chart, as I will probably be struck down by lighting, or become inflicted with some sort of horrible plague, once you do. But, damn it, I was blogging. You would think that God would understand something as important as a blog, wouldn’t you?

WHAT MOTHER TERESA DID WHILE SHE WAS SUCKING BACK AIR ON THIS ROCK:

44% - Thought About The Poor

42% - Worked With The Actual Poor

11% - Raised Money For The Poor

3% - Watched "American Idol"



Now, I am fairly certain that she was only watching “Idol” after all the poor people were fed and cared for. But, I have no evidence of this.

Mother Teresa is ALREADY in Heaven, though. What about me? I’m the one who’s dying, here.

Now, I COULD spend more of my time helping mankind. There’s only one, tiny problem with that. I don’t much care for mankind, as a whole. In fact, there are several members of mankind that I would not necessarily care if they lost their gravitational pull to the earth, and floated out into the atmosphere. I’m assuming that they would disintegrate at some point, and I would consider this to be a good thing.

In fact, I have a list of people I would not mind seeing burst into flame, upon leaving the relative safety of planet earth. However, helping to make that happen would be wrong. At least, this is what my lawyer tells me whenever I bring it up.

So, helping my fellow mankind is out, since most of them suck.

What else could I do?

To answer this question, I went to my newly minted 9 year old daughter. I read somewhere, once, that “a child shall lead them,” or some crap like that. I think it was on a t-shirt. Maybe a bumper sticker. It was definitely someplace where you would read something philosophical.

So, I asked my daughter.

Me: Sweetie, daddy is dying. What should I do to help be a better person?

Spenser: You’re DYING!?!!

Me: Well, yeah, sort of…

Spenser (starting to cry): But, I don’t want you to die….

Me: Well, I’m not REALLY dying,….

Spenser (sniffling): You aren’t?

Me: Well, I mean, yes, I AM dying, but….

Spenser (crying): But, I don’t WANT you to die….

Me: Honey, it’s okay. We’re ALL dying…

Spenser (sniffling): I’m dying, too?

Me: Well, yes, of course you are.

Spenser (crying loudly): BUT I DON’T WANNA DIE!!!!!

Me: This really didn’t go the way I was hoping….

Spenser (still crying loudly): WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Wife: Way to go, Genius.

Me: But, it’s true.

Spenser (continuing to cry loudly): WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

My Wife: Casey, get in the basement…..NOW!!!!

So, I had to come up with a way to be a better person, on my own, without the help of my now traumatized daughter. The answer, of course, came from Harrison Ford.

Yes, THAT Harrison Ford.

I happened to be watching TV, and I saw a commercial featuring old Harrison talking about the environment. I didn’t catch the entire message. But, as near as I could tell, the way the rainforests were being destroyed was the EXACT same way that it would be if Harrison Ford got his chest waxed.

I swear to GOD…….

So, Harrison Ford talked about the rainforest, a little bit, and he looked VERY serious. Then, in order to make his point, he had a young woman apply wax to his chest hair, and YANK IT OUT, really fast.

This did not make Harrison happy. He gave the young woman a VERY terse look.
What is the message?

Well, it is PERFECTLY obvious.

If Harrison Ford continues to lose chest hair, at his current rate, then the world is doomed. Diseases that have long been dormant will come back to life and kill us all. The world will lose its oxygen supply, and many of the planet’s most endangered species will cease to exist.

It’s frightening, if you really stop and think about it.

So, I know what I need to do. I’m going to make it my personal mission to protect, and preserve Harrison Ford’s chest hair. Honestly, I had never really understood how important it was. I don’t think most of us did. If we had, I don’t know how he EVER would have been able to get insurance for ANY of his movies.

Had you realized that, if that giant rock had rolled over him in “Raiders Of The Lost Ark,” that the entire planet could have died? I doubt it. You self-serving, materialistic FOOL!!!!

So, please, join me in my goal to protect Harrison Ford, and his chest hair, at all costs. If you don’t, I’m not going to be held responsible for what happens. Our time on this planet is short, and Harrison only has a limited amount of hair left.

The clock is ticking. Remember, when my daughter is 372, I’LL be 402 years old.

I know. Scary, isn’t it?

Casey

My Son: The Zombie

My 10 month old son is a virus infected, flesh hungry, moaning zombie, who crawls the floors of my home, seeking innocent victims.

There.

I said it.

It's out there, now.

I feel better.

I fear that I may be partially to blame for this. You see, I have an affection for zombies, and zombie-related films, and such. My wife does not share this, and she will not watch them with me. I guess that makes her the innocent victim, here. She birthed the undead. Kinda cool if you think about it, though. However, I doubt she shares my enthusiasm.

You're probably wondering why I think my son crawls the earth, craving brains. It's a legitimate concern. Plus, even if you aren't wondering, I'm going to tell you anyway. So deal with it.

The other day, the boy was crawling around the house, like he does. Actually, he doesn't really crawl. He refuses to use his legs. He just kinda pulls himself along, with his arms, and drags his lifeless body behind him. While he does this, he moans. Creepy moans, too. "UhhhhhhhhhhOhhhhhhhhOoooooooooooo......." This goes on until he gets to his destination, at which point he says, "Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....."

On this particular day, I happened to be his destination. So, he was pulling himself around, making his creepy noises, and he gets to my leg. He pulls himself up to a standing position, looks right at me, says, "Ehhhhhhhhhh....," and then bites me in the leg......HARD.........And it hurt.

How could it hurt?

He only has 2 teeth!!!

Then he laughed.

I yelped.

"YELP!!" I said.

I could have written the whole thing off as something cute, that a small child was doing.

But he did it again.

TWICE.

IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY!!!!!!

HE'S TRYING TO EAT ME!!!!!!

AND HE'S LAUGHING ABOUT IT!!!

That ain't right.

I'm his father. I don't know that it's written down anywhere, but I'm pretty sure that it is some kind of fauzx pas to eat your parents. Unless, of course, you are a zombie baby.

I swear to you that, if the boy could reach up to my skull, he would crack it open and start feasting on the caramel, brain, goodness that resides inside my skull......Yes, I believe my brain is full of caramel. I mean, there's gotta be something in there, right? God knows that it's not filled with "brain stuff."

Anyway, the time change is having an affect on "zombie baby." He can't sleep, at night, very well. As luck would have it, I don't sleep very well, either. I have "night terrors" that keep me awake. These are REALLY scary nightmares, that seem REALLY realistic, and make me want to stay awake rather than have them. So, rather than have dreams about people I love being murdered, in unspeakable ways, I lay awake.

This is NOT GOOD when the Prince of The Undead is occupying the crib 30 feet away.

I can hear him.

He's moaning his undead moans......

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....Ooooooooooooooooooooo...."

I'm not certain, but I think last night I heard him say:

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaadddyyyyyyyyyy.....I'm going to eat your brrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnsssss.......Want caraaaaaammmmmmmeeeeellllll."

I kinda freaked me out.

My wife, of course, does not believe me. She thinks it's cute.

"Oh, look," she'll say. "Max is trying to rip the flesh off your calf, with his teeth.....I'll go get the camera."

Must be nice not to have to live with the threat of "baby zombie" attack, every night. I wish that were me.

But, it's not.

The boy is already standing up in his crib. So, it's only a matter of time. Eventually, he'll be able to crawl over the side. Then, he'll pull his body down the hallway. He'll pass my daughter's room. He'll go around my wife. He'll pull himself up, on my side of the bed. Then, he'll dig his teeth....BOTH of them...into my skull, and all I'll feel is the gentle dripping of caramel, down the side of my head.

A sticky death, at the hands of my zombie son.

Casey

A Random Collection Of Thoughts....

I felt that I should blog.

I don’t know why. There are those who pressure me to blog, but I generally ignore them. However, I was sitting here, and I had a few free minutes, and I thought I would jot some things down.

Jot? I jot? I never knew I jotted. Damn. Sometimes, when I’m all alone and no one is bothering me, I fancy myself a writer. Not a jotter. Sounds lame.

Wait……I fancy?

Crap.

I’m growing the beard back. Okay, that’s a bit of a lie. The beard has been back for a while. So, technically, I’m continuing to grow the beard. I would love it if I could get it nice and long, like the guys from ZZ Top. Sadly, I don’t think that will happen. I don’t have that kind of support system. I good beard needs a solid support system. Mostly, what I get is, “When are you gonna shave that stupid thing off?” So, I don’t see myself goin’ the way of the “Sharp Dressed Man” anytime soon. Would be nice, though.

I’ve got rock salt all over the front of my house. When we got that big snow, last week, I shoveled really late. So, most of it was snow. Lest the precious snowflakes who walk past my house on the way to school slip and fall, I put down a bunch of salt. Then, it got warm. Now, I have rock salt. Now, I’m waiting for it to rain, and wash all the rock salt away. I could go sweep it up. But, I don’t have time for that. Actually, I do have time for that, I just don’t wanna do it. There are things I like to make time for, and things I don’t. Sadly, the things I like to make time for don’t seem to have the time for me, at this moment. However, this in no way, shape, or form makes me want to go sweep up rock salt. Maybe I can just leave it there until the next snow. Probably next year. I don’t think it works like that, does it?

Speaking of that, there is rock salt residue all over my car. I have to go get it washed. Every other place I have ever lived there were stand alone car washes at all the gas stations. You’d buy your gas, pay for a wash at the same time, then drive over to the car wash and get your it done. It took about 5 minutes, total. I only know of one of these such machines, in New Jersey, and it hardly ever works. There are a lot of things like that. Things that work everywhere else on the planet, but fail to work in New Jersey. Why is that? Is New Jersey some sort of Bermuda Triangle? I’ll have to think on that one.

I’m too busy thinking of other things, these days. I’m working on a book proposal, which takes almost as long as writing an actual book. Plus, I’m getting the feeling that it needs to be better than the actual book. I suppose, though, that if I can’t write a good proposal than I have no business writing a book. So, I’m dealing with that. I’m also working on a new zombie story. I’ve been working on it for a while, and it keeps changing. I think it might be pretty good. I dunno, though. It’s hard to tell, when you’re writing it. I’m also thinking of using the blog as an online novel. I’ve talked about that, before. I might just do that. I actually have several chapters of that already written. This would help when you put in my personal “lazy factor.”

I’m also still working on those websites. I’ve got the names. I’ve even got them registered. Pulling the trigger on it is proving more difficult than I had planned. This, too, is my fault due to the time factor. That keeps coming up. The time factor. I wish I could stop time, when I wanted to, and freeze everyone else in place. Then I could get all my work done, and start time back up again. I’d actually be ahead, for once. I don’t know who I’m kidding, though. I wouldn’t work. I’d go around and look at naked women. Sadly, I know myself too well. I don’t get to see enough naked women. Hell, I don’t get to see ANY naked women. There was a “Twilight Zone” episode about that. Not seeing naked women. It was about stopping time. As I recall, THAT guy used his time stopping ability to steal money, not look at naked women. I’m sure he eventually got to that, though, because he broke the watch that allowed him to stop time, and everyone else got frozen, forever. After a while, I’m sure he looked at some naked women. I’ll try not to do that. Meaning, I’ll try not to break my time stopping watch. Wouldn’t want you all to get frozen. That would suck.

Anyway, I’m working on websites, too.

I’m also working on a few audio things, with a buddy of mine, that may end up airing in other countries. We’ll have to see about that. One issue that has come up is that I’m an American. So, I have an American accent. I guess the Australians were concerned about that. They must think we talk funny, here. I like Australian accents, though. I wonder why they hate me.

I just downloaded the Yellow pages App onto my blackberry. Why do I tell you this? Because I like saying App, that’s why……..App.

By the way, writing this is NOT getting my book proposal done. It’s also not getting my zombie story done. My websites? They aren’t done, yet, either. Life is hard.

My wife never kisses me goodnight, anymore. Maybe I should start brushing my teeth before I go to bed.

I rode bikes with my daughter, over the weekend. It was fun. We rode over and got ice cream, afterwards. It was the least amount of stress I’ve felt in as long as I can remember. I should do more of that. I have a girls bike, though, damn it. Why did I buy a girls bike? Hell, it’s not even a girl’s bike. It’s an old woman’s bike. Why did I buy an old woman’s bike? It was probably on sale. I swear to God, I will spend any amount of money on anyone else. But, when it comes to me, I get cheap. Is it because I hate myself? I wonder. Maybe I hate myself because I buy myself such cheap things. Hmmmm….I could ask my therapist that. But, I don’t have a therapist. I was going to go to one. I even made an appointment. But, they were really expensive. Plus, I don’t know if I trust them. I think they only talk to people, because it makes their lives seem better. Plus, people are far more interesting when they are all, shall we say, f*&#ed up than when they are happy. You never see a therapist telling a happy person to come back. But, you will never see them turn away someone who is good and screwed up. It’s because happy people are boring. Messed up people are interesting. Maybe I should become I therapist. I thought about doing that, once, but someone told me I wasn’t smart enough. They were probably right. Still, I like to hear about messed up people. I’ll make a note.

Yes, in fact, I DO like Yoo-Hoo THAT much.

Someone asked me if I was going to announce the Roller Derby, again. I don't know. I haven't been asked. If I am, I probably will. I didn't know if I'd like the sport, and I did. Fast paced, and fun to watch. I don't know why they'd ask me. I wasn't very good at it. I mostly just stood there and said, "Ohhhhhh...." Stuff like that. I announced women's college softball for a whole season, and wasn't very good at that, either. I only did that to meet girls, though, when I was in college. I went out with a bunch of them. But, they only went out with me so that they could get on the radio. I only got to second base with one of them. Ironically, it was the second basemen. I swear to God, I am not making that up. She stopped seeing me when I found that VERY funny. My mouth has cost me a lot of relationships. If I had a finger that was causing me that kind of problem, I'd have it cut off. I don't think that you can cut off a mouth. If anything, it would just make the hole bigger. I would think a bigger hole, would just cause me greater problems. That could not be good. I could sew it shut, but I gotta eat. Either way, if I tried to get to second base with a derby chick, I think she'd deck me. Maybe that's why they haven't asked me back. Hmmmmm.....

I'm in a "not happy" state. I wish that would end. Maybe when the new "Hannah Montana" movie comes out in a few weeks, that will perk me up......Crap....There's a "Hannah Montana" movie coming out in a few weeks, and I'm probably going to go see it. That's depressing........Wait......I perk, too? What the hell!?!!

My book proposal, zombie story, and websites are still not done..........

Maybe I should go......

Casey

Paging Dr. Freud.....

Recently, I posted a picture of myself, with my daughter, on my facebook page. It brought me a barrage of comments, mostly from women, all of which contained the general message, “Awwwwwwwwwwwww……”

The picture was taken moments before Spenser and I left for the annual father/daughter dance. I’m assuming that most of the comments came from adult women, whose fathers NEVER took them to a father/daughter dance.

Have YOU ever been to one?

You’re missing out.

The father/daughter dance, while being a very sweet concept, really has nothing to do with the fathers, or the daughters. It has to do with the aforementioned, adult women who are longing for memories of their own fathers, and don’t want these little girls to have the same, possibly Freudian issues that they have with their dads.

The dance, itself, consists of 3 groups:

The Daughters

The girls will be thrilled to get all dressed up, possibly in a new dress, have their moms put make-up on them, and look as beautiful as they ever have for their “special” evening with dad. They will get their hair and nails done, put on uncomfortable shoes, and smile big for all the pictures that mom will take, before they leave for the big night.

They will arrive at the dance, happily displaying the corsage that their dad bought them (that’s what I did), and wave at all their friends. There will be one, MAYBE two obligatory dance with the old man. Then, they will kick off the shoes, that you just spent $40 on, and run off with all their friends.

The Dads

These “good” men will come home from work, tired after a long day, and get themselves all cleaned up for their “date” with their little princess. They will put on a coat, AND tie, and comb their hair. Some of them will have to call their 67-year-old father, in California, and have him talk them through TYING the actual tie, over the phone. You see, SOME of their fathers never took the time to teach them how to tie an actual tie. So, they will call their dad, who will laugh hysterically at them, and try and talk them through it. Then, they will get mad and hang up on their dad, forcing them to go through their closets, and find a tie that their father tied for them about 8 years ago. It doesn’t REALLY match, but he was tired of getting laughed at by an old man, who lives on a golf course, AND IS GOING TO FIND HIMSELF LIVING IN AN OLD FOLKS HOME, IF HE’S NOT CAREFUL!!!.........

Maybe they need to do father/son dances……..No…….That would be creepy.

Anyway, the dads will do the same, obligatory, one or two dances with their daughters, and then they will be left on the dance floor, alone, trying to make conversation with OTHER fathers, when they aren’t even certain that their kids know each other. The whole time, there will be a “zany” DJ, playing Hannah Montana music too loudly, while he stares at an empty dance floor.

The Moms

This is by far the largest group, AND the group that the father/daughter dance is really for. This is the group of women who now, in their late 30’s/early 40’s, are realizing that they don’t have very many memories of THEIR dads, because THEIR dads really wanted a son. You can tell because a lot of them are named “Toni,” or “Billie,” or “Alex.” You get the idea.

So, since THEY have no positive “daddy” memories, they are going to FORCE you and your daughter to have some, in the delicate manner not seen since Hitler marched across Europe.

Mom: Where is your daughter?

Me: She’s running around with her friends, somewhere.

Mom: WHERE!?!!!

Me: I….I dunno…..

Mom: HOW CAN YOU HAVE FUN, WHEN YOU AREN’T TOGETHER!?!!!

Me: Well, she wanted to go play with her friends. I didn’t want to force her…..

Mom: Did you have a brownie?

Me: No.

Mom: HAVE A BROWNIE!!!!!!

Me: Uh....Okay.....

Mom: Take one for your daughter.

Me: She doesn't actually like....

Mom: TAKE ONE FOR YOUR DAUGHTER!!!! WE'RE HAVING FUN, DAMN IT!!!! WE'RE MAKING MEMORIES!!!!

Me: Okay.......

Mom: Did you get your picture taken with your little girl?

Me: Uh....Well.....No....Actually......

Mom (closing her eyes): Why..........NOT!?!!

Me: Well....uh.....You see, the line was really long.....and.....uh....we just...you know....

Mom (grabbing my tie, and squeezing): You go find your daughter, right f&*#ing now, and get in that f&*#ing line. You will take a f&*#ing picture, and you will smile the biggest f&*#ing smile you have EVER smiled......AND YOU WILL CREATE SOME F*&#ING MEMORIES FOR YOUR LITTLE GIRL. DO YOU F*&#ING UNDERSTAND ME!?!!!!

Me: Uhhhhhhh.......Okay........Can you let go of my tie? If it comes untied, I'm screwed.

Mom (softly crying): Thank you...

Me (putting my arm around her): Are you okay?

Mom: I will be....

Me: Okay.

Mom: Can I call you daddy?

Me: No.....No, you can't.

Mom: Why wouldn't he love me?

Me: I have to go, now.

So, what you get are a lot of daughters who would rather be playing with their friends, a lot of dads who don't have anything to say to each other, and A LOT of damaged, adult women, who will kill us all if we don't eat EVERY LAST ONE of the cookies that they spent hours making for their fathers.......I mean, the dance. They made them for the dance. That's what they did.

If you are ever "lucky" enough to go to a father/daughter dance, I highly recomend it. Just dance the one or two dances with your little girl, then let her go have fun. Eat the brownies, and cookies, and take the cheesy poloroid picture. You're going to make some girl very happy.....

Not your daughter. Your daugher will be running around, squealing about something with her friends. I'm talking about the 3 or 4 hundred adult women, who will be wandering around, with plates full of baked goods, crying softly to themselves.

Just be sure to do EXACTLY what you are told. If you don't, you may end up with one of thoe little, plastic knives shoved in your throat. And THAT, my friend, is NEVER good.

Casey

Bunny Lovin' Is Wrong

Recently, the British tabloid “The Sun” did a survey to find out who the sexiest cartoon character of all time was. The winner? Jessica Rabbit, from the movie “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” I guess that’s good. I mean, she was drawn to be sexy. So, one could say that the animators hit the mark with that one.

Second place was Betty Boop, who was sexy and scandalous in the early part of the 20th century. I suppose that the most troubling part of the list, aside from the fact that grown men were voting on sexy cartoon characters, is who came in 3rd. It was the Cadbury Caramel (or is it Carmel. I never know) Bunny. That’s right. Grown men voted a furry, woodland creature as the 3rd sexiest cartoon character EVER.

Here’s the problem, in case anyone else hasn’t noticed…..

Jessica Rabbit is a HUMAN, who just happened to be married to a rabbit.

Betty Boop?......HUMAN.

What about the rest of the list?

Cinderella is a human.

Wilma Flintstone is a human.

Daphne (from Scooby-Doo) is also a human.

Snow White is a human, too. Though, if I’m not mistaken, Snow White is something like 14. So, I find it a little disturbing that grown men voted her “sexy.”

But, the Cadbury Caramel (Carmel?) Bunny is an ACTUAL bunny. I did a search, on You Tube, in order to verify it. She’s a rabbit. She has a nice, soothing voice. But, she’s still a rabbit. To find her sexy kinda teeters on beastiality, does it not? I don’t know about you, but I’ve NEVER found an animal to be sexy. I even went to the zoo during the Spring, once, and I didn’t even get a little bit turned on.

Guy: Hey, man. Check out those Flamingos.

Me: They’re just birds.

Guy: Hell yeah, they are. With those long legs, that go ALL THE WAY up.

Me: Wait….What?

Guy: And those silky, pink feathers…..

Me: Uhhhhh…..I’m gonna go ahead and…..you know….GO, now.

Guy: I’ll catch up. I need a minute.

Me: Dude, you’re gross.

Needless to say, animals don’t do it for me.

I did have an unusually large number of crushes on girls who were on TV shows, when I was a kid, though. For whatever reason, the Sid & Marty Kroft shows ALWAYS had at least one girl, who inspired thoughts of PASSIONATE hand holding, when I was a kid.

Don’t know Sid & Marty Kroft? Then you, my friend, are missing out, BIG TIME. Sure, they were probably doing pot, or acid, or mushrooms, or some kind of mind altering drug. But, not unlike The Beatles use of acid to create “Sgt. Peppers,” I believe this alleged use of mind accelerants actually added to their work.

There was “Electra Woman and Dyna Girl.” This was a couple of superheroes, who shared an apartment, would put on skin tight outfits, and fight crime. They were reporters, or something, during the day. I had a serious “thing” for Dyna Girl. She had long, straight, dark hair. I like long, straight, dark hair. I liked Dyna Girl. A LOT. I always wanted to write her a letter, but I was too shy. Who knows? She may have wanted to hold MY hand, too. She may have liked guys who talked like Kermit the Frog. She may be sitting, right now, at the “Sid & Marty Kroft Home For Moderately Talented, Former Actors,” wondering what might have been. Sadly, my shyness kept us from being together. Sigh.

Then, there was “Dr. Shrinker.” As the theme song went, he was “A madman, with an evil mind.” That’s right. He was both mad, AND evil. So, it was just plain bad luck when these three older teens crash landed on his island. They survive, make their way to Dr. Shrinker’s house, and he shrinks them. Honestly, what did they think would happen? It’s right there in his name. They probably deserved to get shrunk. But, as usual in these shows, there were two guys ( a hero and comic relief), and a hot girl. Yep, again, I wanted to share my PB&J sandwich with the hot girl. Her name was B.J. Masterson……….Yeah, I know. But, I was 6. It would be YEARS before I had ANY idea. So, put your nasty thoughts aside, and stop trying to ruin the innocence of my youth, damn it. Anyway, she was 6 inches tall, and I wanted one of my very own. A LIVING one. Not a doll. No boy should have a doll named B.J.. Something about that just seems wrong.

The last one I'll mention is "Wonderbug." This was the story of 3 friends (of course), but this one had a twist. One of the friends was black, and he was tragically hip. He said lots of harmless, cool things that made all of us white kids laugh. He was just a sidekick, though, so we never really got to know what made him so hip. Maybe someday there will be a movie that will provide a backstory. But, there were also two white kids. Barry, who was looking for a car, and Susan, who was beautiful and, for some reason, hung out with two losers. Anyway, Barry was looking for a car. So, of course, they went to the junkyard, which is where you ALWAYS go to find a fully functional car that you can just drive home. Duh! The 3 friends found a talking car named Schlepcar. A dunebuggy sort of thing, that was really beat up, and ugly. It was, after all, a junkyard. Susan (looking lovely, even in a junkyard) also found one of those horns, with a squeezy thing on the end. They attatched this to the talking car, squeezed it, and Schlepcar magically became Wonderbug. As wonderbug, he could fly, and he helped the kids, who had never before fought crime, to fight crime. Make sense? Remember, there may have been mushrooms involved. The cool part about this is that, when I was in the 3rd grade, I got to MEET Susan!!!! Not only that, I got to TOUCH Susan. Susan gave me a hug, and pressed her BODY against mine!!! It was the single most glorious moment of my young life. She even signed a picture for my entire class. This picture, which I stole at the end of the school year, provided MUCH for my young mind to ponder.

This was all before Star Wars came out, and I was introduced to Princess Leia. But, it was a start. A wonderful, warm, soft, hugging start.

That was only the beginning, too. There were also female charecters on "Land of The Lost," "The Buggaloos," "The Lost Saucer," and many many more.

Now, is any of this worse than picking Jessica Rabbit as being sexy?

Yes.

Very much so.

For starters, I was 6!!!! The guys who took part in this survey were adults, who were thinking that young princesses, and actual rabbits for that matter, were sexy. That is just wrong on so many levels. Why would you even take part in such a survey? I can only imagine that the answers were given late at night, in their basements, when "normal" adults were asleep.

Just be careful if you see a grown man glaring at pictures of 14 year old, Disney princesses. That guy needs to register, or something.

Plus, keep your hands off of the live bunnies. I don't care how sexy they are.

Casey

What Happened To Me?

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking: “Hey! “Jonas Brothers: The 3D Concert Experience” is coming out. I wonder if it is possible to purchase ADVANCE tickets to this historical concert event.”

Well, let me just go right ahead and answer that for you…..Yes. In fact, it is. AND, if you’re lucky enough, you may just get to sit next to ME!!!

I used to go to movies all the time. I love movies. I love going to them, I love watching them, I love getting mad at the annoying people who insist on talking on their cell phones, softly, because they assume that no one else will care. I consider it to be a total entertainment experience. I love watching movies so much that I actually watched the original “Halloween,” ON THE PHONE, with a person who was watching it some 30 miles away. It’s a fond memory.

Sadly, the reckless days of youth are out of my reach. The last “big boy” movie that I got to go see was the last “National Treasure” movie. That was, what? A year and a half ago?

Nope. My world has changed. There was a time that I saw almost every movie interest that got released. I mean EVERYTHING. I lived in Los Angeles, and virtually every movie that comes out, will show up somewhere out there. Did you ever hear of a movie, starring Phil Collins (Yes. THAT Phil Collins,) called “Freaks?”

It was released in ONE movie theater, for ONE week. Then, it vanished into thin air.

I saw it……IN the one movie theater it was released in. Better still, I saw it OPENING NIGHT!! My friend John and I were the only two people in the theater. It was a bad movie. Strike that. It was a REALLY bad movie. It’s about a guy (Phil Collins. Again, THAT Phil Collins,) who was teased as a child by some guys. Roughly 30 years later, he lures them into this big, freaky house that he lives in, and tries to harass them, and I think kill them. It was never made clear, by chasing them all around this big funhouse, which has rides, and laughing maniacally, while riding in a little car. He eventually gets them to go down a slide, that leads to a pool, that is filled with water AND little squeaky toys. Then, they get out of the house, and nothing else happens. The end. I know. A classic.

“Inside Monkey Zetterland?” Saw that, too. It’s about a former child star (the aforementioned Monkey Zetterland,) who travels around Hollywood, while nothing happens. He’s sad, though. Throughout the movie he runs into such icons as Ricki Lake, and Sophia Coppola (BEFORE she became talented.) Then, at the very end of the movie, NOTHING continues to happen, but Monkey gets happy. The end. Again, classic. That would be a good name for a band, though. “Monkey Gets Happy.” You can go ahead and use that.

“My Life Is In Turnaround?” Yup. Saw it. This one is about two guys in New York (so, you know they are cool,) who have no talent, but somehow manage to get a movie deal. One of them is the “funny” one. The other one is trying to figure out his life, and whether or not he wants love now, or later. Their movie, which is about nothing, as near as I could tell, but takes place IN New York (so, you know that IT is cool, too) gets put into “turnaround.” It’s an industry term which means, basically, that the money people are going to reevaluate whether or not they want to go forward. The “funny” one flips. But, the one who is in love uses this as an opportunity to put his own life in “turnaround,” and decides that he wants both love AND his movie. In the end, his is kissing a girl on the set of their movie, as both is life and the film are no longer in “turnaround.” The film, of course, being set on the very cool streets of NYC. On a side note, the two guys that stared in this movie BRIEFLY had a TV show, on FOX, called “Too Something.” This is of special note, to me, because I was briefly the network voice for this show.

You don’t remember the show, “Too Something?”

Probably because it was about as good as the movie “My Life Is In Turnaround.”

Finally, “Bound and Gagged: A Love Story.” I’m a little sketchy on this one. But, as near as I can remember, this guy catches his wife cheating. So, he shoots himself in the head. He survives, but doesn’t say much after that. He can. He just doesn’t. He hooks up with his best friend, a lesbian, and they abduct HER mistress, who is married to an abusive man, and head off on a road trip of sorts. The whole time, the guy keeps thinking about his wife cheating on him, while the lesbian tries to convince her girlfriend that they are in love, and she should leave her husband. With me? Wait, it gets better. THEN, the girlfriend’s abusive husband sets out after them, and the chase is on. As I recall, the husband eventually catches up with them, and gets abusive. So, the guy who no longer talks kills him. The lesbians decide that they are in love, and are not at all phased by the dead husband, AND the quiet guy is happy, and starts talking again. This film is notable for the fact that it starred adult film actress Ginger Lynn in her first mainstream role. And I was there. I saw it. I have that. You don’t. Nyah!!

My point here is that I have broad tastes in the types of movies that I will go see. Some of them are even good. I’ve seen “Citizen Kane” IN the movie theater, AND “Gone With The Wind.” It’s not all about “Monkey Zetterland!” (Which would also be a good name for a band.)

These days?

Yeah, I’m like every other parent on the face of the planet. I get unnaturally excited whenever a new Pixar movie comes out, because they tend to be the only ones that are worth a damn. Oh, sure, when a “big boy” movie commercial comes on, I will say something stupid like, “I’d like to see that.” Or, “We should go see that.” But, I know it’s never going to happen.

Not me.

That chapter of my life is over.

The “Hannah Montana” concert movie?

Seen it.

“Chicken Little?”

Yup.

“Underdog?”

That was me, in the theater.

“Madagascar.”

“Valiant.”

“The Chipmunk Movie.”

“Horton Hears A Who.”

“Wall-E.” (Which was excellent)

“Kung-Fu Panda”

“College Road Trip.”

“Hotel For Dogs.”

I……WAS…….THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Slumdog Millionare?”

Nope.

“Milk?”

I couldn’t. My daughter had a basketball game.

“The Wrestler?”

Nuh-uh. Though, I hear Marisa Tomei was naked in it, a lot. I think that’s a good thing. But, I didn’t get to go. There were girl scout cookies to deliver.

This is only sad, because I enjoy movies so very much. NOT because I don’t enjoy being a dad. I enjoy that a WHOLE lot more.

Would you like to know what the REALLY sad part is? The part that you WILL make fun of me for?

I’m going to see “Jonas Brothers: The 3D Concert Experience,” AND I’m looking forward to it.

Even sadder? The new Pixar movie is called “Up!” I know the EXACT DATE that it comes out.

If you see the old me, tell him I said hi. Then, if you would be so kind, punch him in the mouth. Just ‘cuz.

Casey

Just A Quick Blog, As Everyone Around Me Is Dying

This will be a short item. I don’t have much time. You see, “the infected” are here, and they are getting restless.

My wife and son are both sick. There is some 24 hour “thing” going around, and they were both unfortunate enough to get it. My daughter and I, as of right now, are fine. But, my wife and son have various fluids coming out of every orifice on their bodies.

It ain’t pretty.

As the dutiful, and supportive husband I am……..STAYING AS FAR AWAY AS I FREAKING CAN!!!!!!!!!!!

ARE YOU CRAZY!!?!!!

I DON’T WANNA GET THAT!!!

My God!! They are both writhing around on the floor, making noises that I haven’t heard since the last zombie flick I saw. It’s depressing, is what it is.

It’s not that I’m not helping. I am. Well, at least as much as I can. I don’t have to bring them food, because neither one of them can keep anything down. That’s probably best. Under normal circumstances they wouldn’t be able to keep down anything that I might cook, anyway. Outside of that, I will take a deep breath, hold it, run in a couple of water bottles, and then make a quick dash back out of the room. Then, I lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the scalding hot water, and attempt to decontaminate myself.

It’s not that I’m being insensitive. I’m not. But, if I get sick, that leaves my 8 year old daughter to take care of us. We would all be doomed, for certain. It’s not because she wouldn’t TRY to take care of us. The exact opposite is true, in fact. She would try. It is through these attempts that she would kill us all.
She THINKS she can cook….She can’t. She watches Rachel Ray throw a bunch of things in a pot, and make something that tastes good. She thinks that’s how it’s done. You just throw a bunch of things a pot, and magic happens. So, she will just start randomly throwing things in a pot, probably end up with a crude form of mustard gas, and my entire neighborhood would be wiped out.

(YIKES!!!! My son just projectile vomited!!! I gotta go clean that up….It smells like “hot sick” in my house. Gross.)

So, the farther I stay away from all the sick people, the safer it is for EVERYONE.
It would also be worse for the world if I did contract this horrid virus. You see, I am very much a stereotypical male, when it comes to getting sick. In short, I’m a big baby when I get the sniffles.

I moan.

I shake all over.

I roll my eyes back in my head. (Even if they don’t need to be rolled back. I just like the affect.)

I convince myself that I’m going to die.

Basically, I milk it for all it’s worth.

Now, I REALLY AM sick when I do this. I never just fake it. But, the way I play it up, you would think there were awards, with cash prizes, for the most pathetic sick person, and I’m nominated in all the major categories.

(more vomit….I’ll be right back.)

So, when you say your prayers tonight, pray that I don’t catch this, for two reasons, really. First, so that my daughter doesn’t kill us ALL, by trying to help. Second, because we don’t need all the drama, from a 39 year old man/child, who’s convinced he’s walking into the light due to a little stomach bug. It’s not a pretty thing.

Okay, on a side note, I’m working toward starting my own website, which will contain things like the blog, but in one central location. My problem is that I have not the first clue of how to do this. I’m working on gathering information. So, if anyone has any, I’d appreciate any help you could give. I’m not necessarily looking for someone to do it for me, for free. I just need to know what to do. I’m not a patient person, and if I have to figure it all out for myself it will take a WHOLE lot longer. Plus, computers hate me, and when I try to do the work I will become frustrated, and throw the thing out the window. So, any help, would be just super terrific.

Also, you may remember a couple of months back I wrote a short story called “The Becoming.” It was a zombie story. I like that kind of stuff, though I don’t post much of it, here. If you want to look back in the archives and read it, I believe the post was titled “Something Different.” Let me know if you can’t find it. I’ll re-post it. Anyway, I’m working on another one. The working title is “Ed.” If there is interest in reading this, let me know. It’s in the horror genre, and is nothing like the normal blogs that I write. Just reference the other story. Many people have asked me if I was going to write another story like “The Becoming.” But, I know that it’s not for everyone. So, I’m wondering if you would like to see it posted, here. If not, I can find another way to get it to the people who would like to read it. So, leave me a comment, and let me know.

Have a great weekend.

There is more vomit to clean up, and I’m just the man to do it!!!

Casey

The Proper Care And Feeding Of Demonically Possessed Hamsters

So, for Christmas we bought my daughter a hamster. For two years we had been promising to buy her a hamster, and never did. You see, like most parents, we were lying to her about buying her a hamster, for two years. Finally, she got wise to us. In a move that can only be described as “evil genius,” she informed us that she was going to go over our heads, and ask Santa.

Check and mate.

Game: Spenser.

Well played, little girl. Well played.

Our hands were now tied. So, on Christmas morning, she opened up a plastic, hamster dungeon, and some sort of “tube” thing, with a book about the care and feeding of the little rat. Then, the next day, we went down the store, and got the little guy.
You would think that this would be an easy decision. But, you would be wrong. You clearly haven’t met my daughter. While I am in no way, shape, or form suggesting that ALL women are like this, my daughter is the type of girl who CANNOT make a decision…..Not unlike her mother. If she reaches her goal of being President, we are ALL in trouble.

Defense Secretary: Madame President, the Canadians have launched a full-scale nuclear assault. What are your orders?

My Daughter: Hmmmmm……

Defense Secretary: Shall we try and shoot them down with the satellite lasers?

My Daughter: Uhhhhhh……hmmmm….Satellite lasers……uhhhhmmmmm…..

Defense Secretary: Or, should I activate the giant bio-dome, that will cover the entire country?

My Daughter: Oooooooo…..Yeah…..Hmmmm….The Bio-dome……Weeeeelllllll…..uhhhh…..

Defense Secretary: MADAME PRESIDENT!!!!! WE NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!!!!

My Daughter: Okay, you know what? This is not an easy decision, and your yelling at me isn’t helping matters. Why don’t we just take a second and…..

BOOM!!!!!!
Then, we would all be dead. Or, under Canadian rule. I can’t decide which is worse.

Frankly, I don’t know why all of you voted for her, to begin with. Must have been all that talk about “change.”

But, along those lines, there are about 8 billion different types of hamster that you can buy, and the giant, non-descript, monolithic, pet box store has ALL of them. Put an 8 year old, who cannot decide which spoon to eat her yogurt with, in front of THAT display case, and I’m a little surprised we made it home before 2010.

There are Syrian hamsters, Dwarf Winter White Russian hamsters, Dwarf Campbell’s Russian hamsters, Chinese hamsters, Roborovski hamsters, North-American-East-Coast-New-Jersey- Demonically-Possessed-Blood-Thirsty-Human-Flesh-Eating-Death-Hamsters-Of-Doom, and many others to choose from.

After what felt like several days of deliberation, we decided to go with a cute, fuzzy, black and white, North-American-East-Coast-New-Jersey-Demonically-Possessed-Blood-Thirsty-Human-Flesh-Eating-Death-Hamster-Of-Doom.

His name is Oreo.

Cute.

Our first clue should have been that, while there were several of every other type of hamster, in all the other cases, Oreo was alone. He had a hamster case all to himself. There were no other “Death Hamsters” in his cage. Just Oreo. Looking back, it’s probably because he ate all the other hamsters. At the time, though, my daughter had convinced herself that it was just because he was so cute, and all the other “Death Hamsters” must have been equally as cute. Therefore, she deduced, she was LUCKY to be getting THE VERY LAST ONE!!!!

When the “Hamster Wrangler” went into the cage to get him, he stood up, and opened his mouth, showing us his horrible, hamster teeth.

“That means he’s mad,” she said. “When they stand up, they are not happy, and may bite.”

Oreo is ALWAYS standing up.

When she reached in, to pick him up, he bit her. Hard. You could tell it hurt.

“Do you still want this one?” I asked my daughter. “He bites.”

“Yes, daddy,” she said. “THAT’S Oreo.”

“Of course,” I replied. “What WAS I thinking?”

So, we picked up Oreo, and all the stuff he would need to exist in our home. Had I known then what I know now, I would’ve stopped by the church and picked up some holy water, too.

We got home, and got the cage set up. My wife reached into the little box that we brought him home in, picked him up. He bit her, on the finger, hard. She screamed, and put him back down in the box. When I looked at her finger, it didn’t just have a little bite, with a little bit of blood. It had a huge chunk, with blood literally flowing out of it.

I thought I saw Oreo smile, and lick his face.

Gross.

We didn’t know what to do. We didn’t want to hurt him, by just dumping him in the cage. Plus, no one else wanted to touch him. So, I went to the garage and got my big, thick, snow gloves, and put one of them on. Then, I reached into the box, and picked up Oreo. The whole time I was holding him, he was trying to bite me through my big, thick, snow glove, AND I COULD FEEL HIS DAGGER LIKE JAWS!!!

I put him down, and we quickly shut the cage.

After that, every time we went into the cage, he would stand up and open his mouth to show us his evil teeth. My wife thought that this meant that he was not happy. Her solution was to buy him another little tube to crawl around in.

I didn’t think this was a good idea. When you have an enemy boxed in, you don’t try to increase his territory, thus empowering him. But, as with most things in my house, I got overruled. So, Oreo/Satan got a new tube.

Unfortunately, when my wife attached said tube, she forgot to close it, and Oreo got out.

OH MY GOD!!!!!!!

OREO GOT OUT!!!!!!!

WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!!!

All I could think about was this freaky, death hamster wandering around my house, at night, and crawling up onto my bed to go after my jugular. I would die, and he would lap up my blood, laughing his maniacal hamster laugh.

Death by hamster was NOT the way I wanted to go. So, I ran up to the room, and prepared to have to hunt him down.

Now, when you go into the room you’d expect most hamster to scurry away, and try to elude me. Do you wanna know what THIS little rat was doing, when I burst into the room? He stood right up, opened his jaws, and started lunging at me.

And, I got scared!!!

Not my proudest moment. I had 170 pounds, and almost 6 feet on him, and HE intimidated ME!!

I composed myself. I walked over, with him not backing off one bit, picked him up in a towel, which he bit, and put him back in his cage.

We had 14 days to return Oreo, back to the depths of Hell. But, each time I offered, my daughter declined.

“Daddy,” she would say. “He’s Oreo.”

“Of course,” I would say back. “What WAS I thinking?”

So, we are stuck with him. Part of me was hoping that one of our two, worthless cats would accidently “get” him. But, I think they may have already had words.
Since we got Oreo, the cats don’t go anywhere near my daughter’s room. They may be smarter than I give them credit for.

I went in, the other night, and he literally started biting at the air when he saw me.

Just last night my wife went in, and he lunged at the plastic door, on the cage. HE WAS TRYING TO ATTACK HER!!!

I’m not a religious man, but I’ve found myself saying a little prayer before I go to bed. It mostly has to do with asking God to NOT let me wake up, with a hamster attached to my neck.

It’s gonna be this way for the next 18 months. At least, it’s supposed to be. That’s how long Oreo is supposed to live. Though, I would not be surprised if he outlived all of us.

Until then, my nightly routine has been altered. Now, I check the doors, check the garage, turn off all the lights, and make sure the damn hamster cage is locked.

I’m not taking any chances.

Casey