Halloween Brings In Our Outer Animals

It’s that time of year again, or so I’m led prominently to suspect by all the inordinately peculiar goings-on about my home, neighborhood and world at large. It’s the time of year when savvy kids don clever getups to beg sharp uppers, quick stimulants and smart Smarties alike. It’s All Hollows Eve.

Between bouts of intermittently admiring, licking and kissing himself, Dominic takes a moment out to cheese for the camera.
Between bouts of intermittently admiring, licking and kissing himself, Dominic takes a moment out to cheese for the camera.

I can’t speak for the motivations of my parents but as a prodigiously prominent progeny I know the score and I’m ready to cash in my chips for chocolates. It’s a straightforward equation, wear a costume and get free candy.* Do I need to spell it out any more plainly?

So forget a moment about my inner child. He and I get along just fine, we’re really more like peers than some unthinkable esoteric philosophical debateer. Sometimes he’s in charge, sometimes it’s me, it doesn’t matter, we’re both on the same page.

And today that page is a catalog of sweetest, most intoxicating candy.

So with my inner child overlooked for the moment, let’s talk about getting in touch with my outer animal… I’m a dog! I’ve been a cheetah and a skunk before, even a chicken-duck, but this dog business is the cat’s meow. Just look at me, I can even bark and mess the carpet and all in the explainable guise of a desire for candy.

Patrick’s outer animal is a white tiger with a tinge of color, likely Hispanic as it’s true to his heritage. Dominic is another dog, so we’re collectively what I think they call “dogs of a feather” but I’m not 100% sure how that whole simile-metaphor thing works.

Our outer animals are out in the open and we’re in touch with the needs that can only be met by uncaging them.

So now I’ll bid you good day as we must now do our stretches** and make all the other necessary preparations for what’s sure to be our long, long night of skittering door-to-door in rampant intimidation in sweet meat beggary.

* Technically all candy is free to me since I don’t actually have a job, income, or much of any money of my own to speak of, but on this day it’s free and plentiful. Such days make me glad to be lactose intolerant rather than diabetic.
** Stretches are imperative before any rigorous undertaking, such as trick-or-treating is done. If your bag isn’t properly stretched it won’t hold enough of the good stuff, specifically candy.

 

Household Control Overtaken Remotely in Person

Today is a day not so unlike any other except that today the television and all its peripherous devicey-doos are all in the control, not of the selective and elitest parents, but rather in the spongy finger-grips of us kindly, spongy fingered kiddos, who have no regard for what you might wish to watch.

Here you can see Dominic checking out some while watching us elder sibs check out the rest.
Here you can see Dominic checking out some while watching us elder sibs check out the rest.

But seriously, we’ve always known what these silly button-pokerous things are for. We’ve just never had the capacity nor organization to defy parental empowery. Today is quite a different day, and if you don’t believe me I’ll just invite you to look once more at the accompanying photographs… that’s right, we’ve got the remote controls.

I don’t know what you guys do with remote controls, but I’ll tell you what we do with them. We grab ‘em, poke odd buttons, then stick them in weird, random and unimaginable places so as the parents can’t never find them. By these methods they are fun, but they’re doubly more so because we get to watch the parents’ stress out when they can’t find them.

I mean, seriously, how cool is that? It’s funny as all get-out and all spank-butt too. I should know, I’ve been threatened with the “spank” as it were, though I’ve never suffered it, no matter how culpable I have been.*

The best part of the whole darn thing is that once you steal the remotes you can pudgy digit poke the buttons and something will almost certainly happen. I’m not joking, something will almost probably definitely happen. TV might get louder, the channel might change, you just don’t know; but what you can know, is that someone is going to be upset because of your doing it. Ain’t that a hoot?

So I’ll bid you good day at this point. Not because I don’t have more to say, but because I’m currently being pursued for my theft of remote controls.

If you’re a parent, continue hiding your remotes. But if you’re a curious kiddy-o kid like myself, you owe it to yourself to steal the remotes and poke all the buttons.

 

Frito Bandito Steals Snacky Refreshments

I’m not a bad person, but I am a hungry one. When it comes to my very survival I make no qualms about my “finding” of snacks (or “looting” if you AP correspondents prefer). So when it comes to afternoon delight, I’m all about the lays, baby. Frito to be specific.

This is apparently what I look like in the thows of Fritos most salty.
This is apparently what I look like in the thows of Fritos most salty.

Something on the label (and corporate website too) says “no one can eat just one,” and it’s true. I’ve had my own singular bag and I’m ready and rearing for another one. It’s true, no one can eat just one bag. But no mind, I’m a Frito bandito and I don’t even speak Spanish.

Salt, baby, oh dear goodness, the salty saltness of saltiest saltiessence.

And as much as I love being a journalist and a dude who reports on (and to) you dudes on a daily basis, I’ve just recently found that I love salts and salty chips more than anything. So if you’ll pardon me (which you don’t have a choice in the matter of) you’ll have to excuse me because I simply must go grab a fistful of chips… mmm, right about now.

So sorry, must go. Oh, and enjoy Frito Lay, I know I surely do.

 

Why Can’t We Go To Print?

Me and the sibs, along with the Miss Mama-Lady, headed down to the bus today so we could meet the grand, grandiose and El Grande Daddy-O for lunch. That was just our alibi, but the crime we committed e nroute was the discovery of freely circulated circulars in print edition form, which got me to thinking; why can’t we go in to print?

Here`s some free publications, why can`t ours be in this mix?
Here`s some free publications, why can`t ours be in this mix?

There’s a pair of pounds of free publications all made available there and each more useless than the last. There’s the “alternative” papers, which mostly cater to adults most ugly “adult” desires, the apartment mags that cater to people lacking the smarts or capacity to purchase a home, and a bunch of unemployment papers sponsored by companies that refuse (with statistical certainty) to hire from the pool of perpetually unemployed who comprise their free, bus-stop oriented readership.

But it got me to thinking why can’t we go into print?

I’ve consulted this matter with Daddy-O once before, the in-facto sponsor of our many and many splendored ventures. He said he’d looked into it, and despite its cost effectiveness, he didn’t have the time to distribute it and sell ads to make it work… but that’s really sad, if you ask me.

Check these useless and often glossy magazines out, you people. They’re free and contain tons of information, almost all of which is entirely commercial. We could make just as great a ride of such a thing as anybody, right? Why not? We’ve got real information and real tales of both “woah” and “yay,” are you feeling me?

So I’ll conclude this daily scrap of madness thusly; if you like us ever so much and don’t think you’d be located in just such a precise place as to locate our free distribution in the course of your normal life… Would you pay to subscribe to this paper?

Let me get a smidge more specific. If you would pay $24 per year to have home delivery of our 8-page, newsprint-printed home edition, would you do it?

If you would, take a second and drop us a line using the contact info listed up above. It’s something we’re exploring. It would take a ton of time but would unequivocally legitimize our validity, bring in a couple of potential extra nickels towards our college fund, and maybe even lead to our escape from the doldrums of daily life.*

* By “escape the doldrums of daily life” I mean “make Daddy not have to leave us to go to work 500 days a week. Well, I’m not sure exactly how many it is, but that’s how many it feels like to me.

Kid Dawns Mohawk Just to Upset Parents

I’ve been a rebel since my first yell and recent research has shown me that nothing is more able to upset my parents than donning a Mohawk. Needless to say, when the moment arose I wasted no time in seeing it, accepting it, and making it one with my head in the quickest and easiest way possible… Ala the latex skull cap, of course. story798

So since dad pretends to be unphased by kicks to the nuts and Mama-Lady seems indifferent to cleaning up the routine fecal disasters most common in our home, I had to resort to more intimate and offensive means to raise the hair on anyone’s head, most specifically my own.

I saw my chance. I liked what I saw and I took it. I donned a foppish Mohawk, just to upset my parents.

At this point I should make clear my second level of disenchantment with the man, and by “the man,” I mean both my dad and my mom. They didn’t mind this either. They had the nerve to accept it, rejoice in it, support it, and even tell me how adorable I looked in it.

I’m sure it was double-negative-reverse psychology, but it worked. Within minutes I’d tired of the new “do” and took it off. What a waste of protest efforts.

I’ll have to get really creative on my next protest, maybe hire a consultant or something to really get under their skin. Maybe I’ll vote independent party or tear a tag off the mattress. I don’t know yet but whatever it will be, I promise the next one will be more shocking and less acceptable.

 

 

Extreme Sports (PVC Slides) Hair Raising

I’ve always been a real adrenalin chaser in terms of seeking out new sports that are exciting, invigorating and — as the photos you see here will surely concur — hair raising. I’ve got nothing against my hair standing on end, but I didn’t see it happening like this… oh no, not like this. story796

Put aside a moment the stunt training I’ve done and the taming of many wild animals of assorted sorts. It’s no discredit to those endeavors, it’s just that this latest extreme sport is (quite literally) more hair raising than any other I’ve encountered in recent years by a good eight feet, all of them vertical.

PVC has always made for fine pipes (check your house if you don’t believe me) and fine, skin-slick pants (check Miss Mama’s attraction to Daddy-O in his efforts to conceive me if you don’t believe it) but no higher and better use has ever been conceived than by this, the kiddo-butt dynamo best known as the PVC slide, and I’m here to tell you, it’s electric and hair raising all at once.

With the last days of summer waning and flickering out I had to seize my day and get my butt planted firmly to plastic, however slipperily so. Thing is, it’s hard to slide down slides when they’re wet. Also it isn’t much fun because you get wet and chilly, not to mention the fact that you just sit there not moving.

That’s all I’ve got today. I dictated this story (like I dictate my office staff) during a quick break, but my energy to reclimb the tower to partake of another zippy ride has returned, so I must go.

If you’re a fireman and you’re sick of the fire pole, consider a slide instead. It gets you from upstairs to down in just about the same time but with more fun, less hanging on and none of those broken leg claims Labor & Industry hates so much. It’s still extreme, just not so fall-down dangerous.

 

UFC Announces Penultimate Fighting Championship®

f your cable box is broken and the only channel you can tune into is Spike TV, you know all about the UFC, or Ultimate Fighting Championship®. It’s a great way to fight, I’m told,* because the only rules are, there are no rules. story794

Ultimate Fighting was once an obscure sort of super violent human cock fighting which struggled to gain a foothold, but once it was banned in a bunch of states it earned a place in Americana by being a focus on the popular sitcom Friends. You remember it, right? Monica’s billionaire boyfriend decided to become an Ultimate Fighter and Joey stuck his finger in Chandler’s mouth to explain that fish-hooking is unacceptable?

Anyhow, it’s a wonderfully violent sport. I’ve never seen it, of course, but I’ve heard from my mom, who watches it every week, that it’s just fantastic. I know, total weirdo, huh?

But now it seems they’ve got a new, minor league sort of UFC and that my own brother has joined their peewee ranks in the T-Ball version of Ultimate Fighting. As I understand it, it’s called Penultimate Fighting… Look up penultimate if you don’t get it, it’s a funny joke I promise.

Look at him all posing there. He’s got his hands up high, he’s got a pre-ready shiner and a wide area of yellow around it. Since it’s little league he gets head gear and gi-normous fists to wear, but just the same, he’s ready to use everything he can get to his advantage and win the match… except for eye-gouging and fish-hooking, but I’m not sure he’s been told about that yet.

He’s an expert in shoving and pushing, as well as slapping and taunting. Weighing in at 38 pounds he’s a pretty solid contender in the Origami weight class, so call up your bookie and place your bets now.

Of course, as an investigative journalist, however sensational I may be, I think it’s important that I point out some research I did. According to an article I read yesterday on Perplexing Times called “Second Opinion In, It Ain’t Just Me” by Dominic Benjamin, it looks as though this black eye and laceration he suffers were both induced by a mishap with a plate and not in a qualifying bout at all…

Huh, that’s weird. How did I sleep through that one?

 

Third Opinion In, It Ain’t Just Me

Oh man this is perfect. I asked for a clean bill of health.

See, it’s not that I’m not concerned about my own well being, it’s that his injury (suffered in the same work-a-day house under the same work-a-day conditions) make mine look like kid’s play, which technically both of ours still are.

Here he is showing off his purple trophy.
Here he is showing off his purple trophy.

So I got my so-called second opinion* — the one that says whether the first opinion was valid or not — and I got it direct from the oldest and wisest of any of the siblings I have.

Now the solution, I think, is that we should probably but a bell on him or something. You know, like a cat. Have to know where he is to avoid this sort of nonsense in the future, and besides, it would be totally degrading and that would be funny.***

* “Meh”, a word the meaning of which we’ve notated before, so this is your final warning. “Meh” (spelled just like that) is a word of indifference coined by the world’s greatest potential babysitter, Lisa Simpson.
** Plus crayons, coloring paper, stickers, pretzels and a Beanie chicken… man, I thought hospitals were supposed to be no fun at all, what gives with this business, man?
*** Of course, by that rationale they’d have to put a bell on me too, but I’m secure with myself. I’d take that bell if it was offered.

 

I’m Accident Prone, Second Lump Concurs

I’ve always worked ever-so-diligently to bring you good and goodly folks the news to the best of my infantile abilities. It’s never been easy as I’ve always and since forever been forced to live in the shadow of my elder brother, Cap’m Overacheiver. Yet, no less, I’ve taken my bumps and bruises like the best of them, but rumor has it, on account of my sheer magnitude of lumps, I am the best of them.

In the highly unlikely event you can
In the highly unlikely event you can

So what’s the deal with all my lumps? One could reasonably argue I’m accident prone or that very same “one” could argue that I’m not that, but rather a comparable exploratory, extremely sporting sort of junior manly-man…. So which is it?

LEFT – Here’s a close-up of my shiner. It’s blurry but not as much as my vision of my own surroundings were at that particular moment. Wee-ow, who did this business to me? (And don’t just say me, despite it’s rampant, so-called “truth” or “factuality.” I’ve got never-no-mind for none o’ that such nonesense.

I’d argue I’m just about exploration, not that other sort of sport (the one which pertains to dangerous and even suicidal exploration.)

I don’t jump off cliffs (nor “gump” off cliffs as Aunt Ansler spoke to do at my age — much to her chagrin now in college) but, then again, just check out the stuff around me… Does that mean I should be in a position to suffer most callous bumps to my undeniably virgin arms, shins and noggindy-doo?

I’d argue I’m just doing my job, but apparently I’d be wrong. I assert my incorrectness on account of how loudly and consistently the parents protest my surveysome interrogatories. It’s no fault of mine that the world about me (AKA the house) is so darned exciting.

But no less, I host a purple-eyed lump upon my head, and exploration or nary’n’t any, it ain’t nary a smidge of no fun not any at all, not how… How’s that for your seventuple-negative du todayjno? Seventuple good, by my estimization, even if in ebonics by ignoramitudal proxy, but does that serve even the first lick of any good, even if it were to pertain to a Tootsie Pop?

One could argue “No.”

And one would be right in their argument.

All that shelved — even if briefly so — I’d warrant to ask you about the lump on my noggin, specifically my face. Dr. One says I’m just accident prone, Dr. Numero-Duo does unduly concur with this ridiculous finding, but I have to throw this out to the peanuty gallery: does that truly mean I am, in fact, accident prone? Or is there some more sinister plot afoot?

And with the “afoot” question I should point out that my feet are indeed quite small.

But as a doctor, non-doctor or general layperson I have to ask: What’s the deal with my shiner?

 

Eager Brother Usurps Pee Throne

I’ve been a student of the urinary arts for about a year now and I have to say I’m getting pretty good at it. I’m not perfect, I’ll admit that much, but if I’ve learned one thing from my Mr. Daddy-O it’s that my time on my throne should be my own. This newcomer to the sport doesn’t get it, the baby keeps pushing me off the chair and it just isn’t right.

Ever feel like your personal bubble`s maybe being crowded just a little?
Ever feel like your personal bubble`s maybe being crowded just a little?

The parents aren’t alone in their unending requests for a moment of peace in the bathroom, seems it’s pretty much everyone that wants to be left alone at such moments of intimate departure. That doesn’t stop me from barging in, pointing, commenting and generally harassing them whether they be parents or houseguests, but now it’s my turn to ask for a moment and I’m no longer getting it.

I’ve never had much privacy during these supposedly private moments, and I haven’t really needed them. More often than not some sort of chocolate candy is in wait as my reward so the stage fright can remain in the wings pretty effectively. It’s just that this “distraction” has gone to a new level.

pee-usurps2LEFT – It may seem funny at first but he really gets pushy when it comes to sharing the chair.

Bugging me is one thing, but pushing me off the toilet while my Flintstone vitamin-loaded pee is midstream is more than I know how to work around.

I commend the brother Dominic for his newfound ability to pee anywhere other than his own pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Nature stops for no man, not even a bungling baby brother who is jealous of my potty time and wants the throne and candies both for his own. I’m still learning to share and this is one thing I have no problem leaving to him 95% of the day, but if I gotta go, I gotta go man, that’s just all there is to it.

If you’re a mediator interested in negotiating a settlement between us I’d be more than willing to hear your proposal. I’m willing to give up an awful lot, but “new guy” has to let me take care of my own business too, you know?

In the meantime I’ve ordered a bunch of hockey goalie gear to help me keep him at bay. If that doesn’t work I’ll only have one last line of defense and I learned it from Ghost Busters… I’ll have to redirect the stream from my blaster to teach him a lesson. I know it ain’t right but neither is physically removing me from the can when I’m in the middle of my business.

ABOVE - This is me helping him learn how to use it in the first place. With that great knowledge has come great power, specifically the power to push me off of it when it's fairly my turn.
ABOVE – This is me helping him learn how to use it in the first place. With that great knowledge has come great power, specifically the power to push me off of it when it’s fairly my turn.