send ME your dollar

Over the weekend, ABC news had a poll.
For .99 you could call in and have your voice heard.
Small price to pay, ...less than a buck,...what a bargain.

A chance to take part in the political process.
To possibly help mold the future of our great nation.
For less than one dollar.

What a country.

They posed the question:
If the Presidential election was held today, who would you vote for?

Seems innocent enough.
Think for a moment, choose your candidate, push the phone digits, give your reply.

The results were tallied and pie-graphed at the end of the program.
36% for this schmoo, 29% for that schmuck, 16% for the hillbilly, 8% for Mayor McCheese, and 11% undecided.

Heh, um, what did I miss?
I was careful not to bring any common sense to the old politico table, but 11% of the callers were actually undecided?
The call was a dollar!
What brain-dead political science major makes a .99 phone call and doesn't have a vote?
Say Scooby Doo for a goof.
Vote for Dee from Good Times just for laughs.
But to plunk down your Big-Mac money just to say you don't know?

Picture it;
Hello, ABC news polling line. Who would you like to vote for?
Der, uuuuhhhh, I uuuuhhh, mmmmm, well I am just ahh uhh, not sure.
Thank you for callin in, Gomer.

I do believe I've seen the future America.
And it ain't good.

MATH PROBLEM

Typical day at work on the construction site;

4 finish carpenters.
5 frame carpenters.
3 stone masons.
2 tile setters.
2 dock installers.
5 painters.
2 plasterers.

1 portable toilet.

That's bad math.
Potentially infectious, possibly disastrous, assuredly odorous, bad, bad, math.

But our shining knight, with his 650 gallon capacity, silver tanked steed, and his p.t.o. driven, on-board suction hose, gallops to the olfactory gland rescue every Tuesday and Friday. Never a complaint, sometimes a grumble, but always dilligent about his doody.

It makes me wonder.
Is outhouse cleaner is a career goal for some people? I don't recall any booth at any job fairs. My high school guidance counselor never brought it up as a possible future for me. (If he did, I would have smacked the crap out of him - .......pun intended). I also don't know anyone who has applied for the gig. Maybe they are raising a whole clone army of crapper suckers in an underground bunker? Who knows?

The way I figure it, this guy cannot possibly get paid enough. I don't know what kind of qualifications this job would require, or what port-o-man cleaner brings home after taxes, but I'm glad someones doin it. ..and I'm glad it ain't me. 'Cause if you work in a pizza place, you go home smellin like pizza. If you work in a fish market, chances are you're smellin like trout. But this job would require you be married to some noseless Muppet. And Muppets scare me.

Seriously, I think I would have to charge $10,000 for each port-o-can service. I figure once a month I'd don my hazardous material suit and gas mask, do the dirty deed, collect my 10 g's per, and be livin on easy street. Or, I'd count and rate all of the quickie-marts and fast-food joints within 2 miles of the job-site, and proportion my fee accordingly.

For example:
# of convenient stores within 2 mile radius - - - 4
# of fast food restaraunts in same radius - - - - 3
average overall gut wrecking rating - - - - - - 255
cost of gas mask filters - - - - - - - - - - - - - - $15
stinkability factor (constant) - - - - - - - - - - 100

So in this case;
4+3( 255/15 ) x 100 = 7 (17) x 100 = 119 x 100 = $11,900 per.

.....and that's math I can live with !

DREAM ON

I am happy to join with you here today in what will hopefully bring sanity to parents across this great nation of ours.

For I too, have a dream.

I have a dream that one day Kool-aid spilled from the glass of a toddler, will not stain my carpet. So as to ease the relationship between clumsy youngsters and rug-scrubbing fathers.

I have a dream that Crayola crayons will not melt in my dryer, ending forever, the practice of testing Daddys' pocket checking abilities at laundry time.

My dream is for the future leaders of our country to eat their vegetables, without the fuss, so we may never again speak the words, "then just sit there, until you do."

I dream of baby-sitters by the hundreds, lining up at my door, to tend to my children, free of charge, so Daddy can get drunk at a hockey game and scream at the referees.

I have dreampt of a time when the mutant kids next door, will lay down their water balloons, and never again plot an unprovoked attack on my newly washed truck.

I dream of a day when day-care centers do not close for every holiday on the calendar that I am not off of work for. Causing family and friends who do have the day off, to spend it with my kids.

I have a dream of barefoot children, not biting their toenails.
And of walking barefoot myself, into my sons room, without the m-f ing scream that can only come from stepping on a matchbox car or a lego.

But alas, I awake from my slumber only to find it is only a dream.

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

PARDON THE FRUSTRATION

Another week in the tank.
7 more days of my life I'll never get back.
Good ridance.
Turn the page, close the book, shelve the book, then burn the shelf.

Between the 3 day de-programming my kids require after a weekend at the beasts house (that's the X , for newer readers) and the apparent "who can piss me off the most" contest at work, I've had it.
Kids, we've been over this before. Just wake up in the morning, have your pop-tart, and remind yourself that Damon is always right. I promise your day will slide by with the dazzle and glee one might only expect to find at tiger feeding time at a Segfried and Roy show. In other words, do what I say and no one gets hurt.

As if it's not tough enough trying to get my little monsters to behave, the morons who work for me decided this week to forget everything I asked them to do. But I am no stranger to repeating myself. After all, I am the reigning "did not - did too" champion of the house, and when the opportunity arises, I plan on de-throning my daughter in the " nuh uh - uh huh" competition.

The way I figure it, if I'm gonna have to babysit these "adults" all day, I should be able to punish them when necessary.
Give the tile setter a time-out.
Put a carpenter over my knee.
Send the stone mason to bed with no lunch.
Or get 'em all with one swoop and unplug their radios.
Yeah that's it. I have power over the power.
Just remember that this is going to hurt you, more than it hurts me.

THE GROCERY STORE

For whatever reason, my kids love the grocery store.
Maybe it's the slim chance daddy's lost his mind, and will fill the cart with Ding-Dongs and Twizzlers.
Perhaps it's the free cookie provided by the bakery lady with the hairnet.
Possibly it's each childs' notion that it's their turn to pick the Pop Tart flavor.
But as with all outings, we try to make our own fun.
With my daughter, the challenge is to get as many things into the basket without the old man spotting her. She is getting craftier as she gets older and uses package size and the little brother distraction technique like a seasoned veteran.

For my son, it's always some new way to attach himself to my wiggly-wheeled chariot without actually tipping it over. There's the 'side-cart hang and grab'. The 'front of the ship arch and perch'. The 'mine-cart simulator'. The 'don't let the catamaran tip over - lean and grasp'. And my favorite, 'the hood ornament'.

Each week we make our way through. Each of us selecting our weekly menu items. Trying to not crash into anything or annoy anyone too much. Keeping in mind that if it says anything but microwaveable, we could be in trouble.

The trip also begins with the knowledge that Daddy is a sucker for those toy vending machines at the exit. A ring. A compass. A glob of goo. That sticky stretchy hand thingy. Or do I dare, perchance to dream, that ever elusive mini-spy camera which has taunted me since my own upbringing.
We stare in wonderment at the possibilities of what the machines promise to spit out.
Clear little balls with multi-colored caps. Each filled with one of the potentially gratifying prizes displayed on the goodie filled glass jar.
But our hopes turned to skepticism.
For this is what we got.



Such joyful toys for the kiddies.
The gangsta, goateed, prison-hardened clown, legs crossed atop the 8 ball, scares the crap out of my 4 yr old.
And the poker chip will surely teach my 11 yr old the importance of hard earned money.
--The spy camera still eludes me.

HOW FITTING

The fine folks at Google Adsense are running an ad for "free, kicked in the balls videos" on my site today. ......Oh the humanity

ADVANCED PARTY PLANNING

My son is turning 5 years old in a couple weeks.
I am his social coordinator.
I didn't apply for the gig, it was thrust upon me.
But where to go? What to do?

Well there's always Chuck E. Cheese.
150 amped up little brats, screaming for more tokens. The bells and sirens and bleeps and bloops. The teenager in the 5 foot rat suit scaring the crap out of little party goers, like Godzilla stomping through munchkinland. Oh, and the finest pizza shaped cardboard money can buy. OOOhh, sign me up.

There's mini-golf.
My son and his pre-school pals wielding clubs around like light sabers. Me,wading through the water traps for hours because little Jimmy with the wicked slice had to have the black ball. The eventual golf turned hockey game that breaks out because no one wants to wait their turn. And pullin kids down as they climb the rocks like fire ants in a flood. Pass on this one.

How 'bout bowling.
Yeah, here's a good idea. Trying to get these little tricycle motors to lift a ball half their body weight. Spending an hour tying up 22 tiny little shoes on 22 stinky little feet. Sending the 4 man mini-rescue posse to find Connor in the bathroom because it's his turn. Calling the attendant every 3rd frame because the ball is stuck half way down the lane. And let's not forget the impending trip to the alley game room, where I'll be pulling in chairs for boosting up these baby non-gamers who can't get Frogger across the road anyway. Head on- apply directly to the forehead. Pass again.

Maybe we'll just stay home.
Maybe, go to the park.
Maybe, I just won't tell him it's his birthday. He is only 5. Think he'll know?