When I cook something in the microwave I often watch the timer count down toward zero. Just before it reaches zero, I pop open the door and deny the device the opportunity to buzz, or beep, or whatever. The appliance must get engorged with anticipation that it was about to let loose with a sound, yet was denied. I fully expect these “unfulfilled sounds”, these pent-up electrical currents, to eventually build up to the point that the microwave lets loose with a buzz or beep at the two second mark. Or, if it gets really backed up, it’ll probably just radiate my ass.

The same can be done with oven timers, intermittent wipers, clap-on/clap-off lights (just give them one clap), etc. I’m not sure why I do this, but it could be related to my alcohol consumption during the early 1980’s, or perhaps some Freudian sexual hang-up thing I would rather not think about or discuss.

Day Care Dreams

I finally get to take my boys to the “SHOW ME THEM NINNIES” day care tomorrow. The boys have been at home during the summer, but now get to return to the land of cleavage for some good, clean, wholesome “child-care”.

Yes, this is the facility (15 miles out of town) that I decided to enroll them at based solely on the looks of the female staff. The young women parade about in shorts & tight shirts and don’t seem to mind that a short, bald man stares at their breasts as he dumps his boys off for a day of staring at their breasts. The truly cool part is that if I get there early tomorrow, I can pick them up at the pool!!!

Unfortunately, both boys are getting older and will be enrolled in school this fall, and the “SHOW ME THEM NINNIES” day care will no longer be a part of our routine.

I’m seriously thinking about adoption.

One Ball

Had a small dog growing up, a Shih-Tzu, pronounced SHIT-ZOO. He was cool and playful and all, and had to have one testicle removed due to cancer.

With the success of Lance Armstrong’s (a one-baller) WearYellow campaign which has sold something like 6 million yellow wristbands, I thought I might market a WearYellow dog collar in memory of my little shit-zoo. I could site his struggle with cancer, the ridicule he suffered from other dogs, his slightly off-balanced gait, etc. Of course, my dog never won 6 Tour de France titles and never dated Sheryl Crow. But I bet Lance couldn’t lick his own crotch or eat his own turds either. I think it’s even.