Times are a Changin'

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Huffing made easy.

I can honestly say that I have never thought of sucking on a can of computer duster, but whatever floats your boat, I guess. What happened to the good old days when people would just "Spark the Owl", "Smoke a Bowl", "Torch a Fatty", or "Dance with Mary Jane"?
New druggies really give good, old fashioned, stoners a bad name. Check it out. This was a compilation from a reality intervention show. Enjoy the freak show.

Love is blind.

No joke, it really is. I’m not speaking about how a young woman in love is blind to the jerk they share their bed with, or the fact that he hasn’t had a job in 5 years and is living with his parents. That is true enough, but I am speaking quite literally, that love makes you see something visually different than other people see.

I never would have agreed with this hypothesis until it happened to me. My daughter was born severely premature. When she finally came home from the NICU, her hair had all fallen out and she was still only 4lbs after months and months of all kinds of hell and triumph that I won’t go into here. I watched her grow and develop from 1lb 9oz to that beautiful 4 pounder. I was holding her one day and was staring at her little face and mentioned to my brother-in-law how I was amazed that some people have the ugliest kids and don’t know it. He says “Well, yours isn’t exactly winning any beauty contests…but she has been through a lot, and that is to be expected.” I was floored. I honestly saw the cutest little one in the world when I looked at her. Was he blind, or was I? Eight years have passed and I look back at those pictures and see a baby that had many medical issues and can almost understand how someone used to seeing a chubby infant would think my child looked skinny and sickly….almost. It has never crossed my mind that she wasn’t always adorable, except for that one comment by my brother-in-law.

Another example is a woman I saw through social circles many, many times. I would giggle to myself that she looked exactly like Aughra from The Dark Crystal (note the picture above). Then, my wife and I got to know her and her family and we all became quite good friends. We have now known her for seven years and I really don’t see it anymore. I remember mocking her, but now her hideousness has been reduced exponentially. I would say she is of average attractiveness like anyone. Seven years ago, I didn’t see that at all.

This is really a remarkable thing. Why can feelings change the lines and colors that our eyes take in? How can an emotion bend light? I really don’t know the answer, but I do know that when every parent says their kids are the cutest in the world; they aren’t lying. To them, the really are. To all of those women who want the light off because of a few extra pounds, know this: if your lover really loves you, his eyes don’t see you the way you think they do. Shapes are shifted and light is bent by a process that boggles the mind.

Bigfoot has been found!

Well, it is official. Bigfoot has been found and currently resides in redneck’s freezer. He is always in the last place you look. The undeniable photographic evidence shows a 7 foot 7 inch 500 pound Bigfoot stuffed in a small chest freezer. I say small chest freezer because a second picture later released shows three 5’5” studs standing next to it, and the freezer is pretty much dwarfed. That makes sense though, because you can really fold up the big guy, especially after the rigor mortis sets in. The other interesting part of the photo is the fact that it says it is a picture of a thawed Bigfoot. Correct me if I am wrong, but does thawed mean it was frozen, but now is not? Doesn’t the freezer do the freezing? …and it is still in a freezer, as we can see. I know people get that word mixed up. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to murder someone because they asked me to dethaw something from the freezer. It is already frozen moron, if I dethaw it, it only becomes more frozen. That’s right, more frozen, it gets way colder when you put it back in the freezer. Sorry, I digress, one may want to keep that bad boy on ice though, cause he is gonna be a little ripe if you keep him thawed. I included the pictures below.













The three geniuses had a press conference on Friday where they had planned to release the DNA testing results proving the rolled up carpet with a Chewbacca mask stuffed in a freezer is really a Sasquatch, but it seems the data wasn’t quite ready. Surprise, surprise. More info was uncovered though as they now say that they had a camcorder with them on their hike and they have some video proof of a family of Bigfeet…Bigfoots…Bigfooties that actually stalked them. I was a skeptic before, but after seeing a photo released from this footage, I am a believer. I am a little ashamed to admit that after seeing the freezer photo and reading the size specifications, I was worried they had actually accidentally bagged Patrick Ewing.

Anyhow, click HERE for the remarkable photo of one of the stalking creatures that puts a big foot in the mouth of all skeptics.

IT Guys Rock

IT guys..you rock! I'm a computer geek myself, but there is a whole other class that I like to call the computer-douche. No where else in the world will you find 300lb, pimple faced asses so full of themselves and their "knowledge". Knowledge that only came to them by way of dateless Friday nights and countless hours entrenched in "Guild Wars" building up their level 77 Paladin Shadow Mage.

This is a long one, but classic. The more you work with computers, the funnier you will find this. Stick it out for the duration. It is worth it.

Hells Ya

That's what I am talking about. The only thing that would have made it better is if it was the opening dance scene and he dumped water over his sessy bod....in slow-mo stop-mo.

EBay Ruined Everything

I used to be a collector, a psycho really. I loved the hunt, the acquisition, and the placement of the piece in my collective puzzle. I collected toys and sports cards. Don’t say it, I know. So when EBay came around, I was thrilled. No longer was I confined to local shops, the world was opened like monstrous floodgates and I was there for the buying. I filled my collections, found the impossible to find, and watched as package after package of the previously impossible was delivered right to my door. Oh I paid handsomely for much of it, but it was worth it. It was a passion and an investment, well come to find out, a passion anyhow.

Then came the problem. Those flood gates were opened up to everyone else too. Before, if you walked into a card shop and found a Jerry Rice rookie card on the shelf, it was quite a find. You had to find the shop and be lucky enough to find the card there too. Now, everyone’s PC was linked to the same shop and there were always 20 or so of every rookie card always on the shelf. All of the sudden, it wasn’t that great of a find because they were always available. Owning the card wasn’t enough. You needed it in pristine shape, with the picture centered and the borders square. Mint didn’t mean mint any more. Mint had ridiculous requirements, and the near mint became worthless.

This happened with all of the collectable toys too. As EBay got bigger, everything became more and more available and hence more and more worthless. I have thousands of cards that literally are worth less than the paper they are printed on. I don’t see that ever changing in my lifetime. All of my toys are just toys, despite the amount I paid under the pretense of collecting. They are worth less than they were when you could find them on every Kmart shelf. Thank you, EBay.

Go take a look, even the most coveted collector's items in history are all sitting on EBay right now waiting for a bidder. Mickey Mantle rookie, there are three for sale right now. Go get one. Your Terry Bradshaw rookie you have been keeping for the last 30 years is worthless, because it is considered C8+ grade as the manufacturer didn’t get the card cut exactly right. Your card protector is worth more than the card in it.

EBay is a cruel mistress. I thought it was the greatest thing a collector could ever want, but by its very nature, it killed collecting. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they had help. George Lucas did his part too.

Old Dogs are a Dying Breed

I am not that old, but I sure feel disconnected these days. Nostalgia has been washing over me and I feel like an old man with archaic ideas. Here are a few of my thoughts.

Points and condensers are a thing of the past, but what about the old “Condenser trick”. You know, you grab a condenser, ground the body on the frame of the car, pull a plug wire and with the engine running, arc a couple thousand volts into that bad boy. Throw it to a buddy and when he touches both ends…Yowzer. That is a shock. It is a classic…and it is gone.

Muscle cars – No 4 cylinder car is ever going to be a muscle car. Displacement, noise, and power are prerequisite. I know, I saw The Fast and the Furious and your Rice-burner may blow my doors off, but a muscle car it is not, and will never be. Remember when you bragged about your cam and carb? No, I guess you wouldn’t.

Semi-Classic movies – Everything is getting remade, which makes the original obsolete or at least tainted by the remake. Another 10 years and nobody will ever remember Jamie Lee Curtis as the “Queen of Scream”. Rob Zombie did a much better job with Halloween…but in doing so, he buried history. Even the movies that don’t get remade have crappy sequels. Disney classics have cartoon TV series and 16 sequels that make the original masterpiece nothing but a little white noise in the monstrous engine that is marketing. BTW, if you didn't know, Zach Effron is Ren in the new Footloose remake....way to kill a classic with a High School Musical nightmare.

Oak Furniture – What the hell are people going to buy as antiques 100 years in the future? “Next up for auction is this classic do it yourself oak veneer desk from Wal-Mart that remarkably still has the cardboard backing intact….do I hear $4?” Here’s an experiment, go to Oak Express and try to find anything that is solid oak. You won’t find it, they may tell you it is solid, but if you look, only the trim is solid wood. “Packing significant lumber” means something entirely different these days.

Big Mac – Remember when a Big Mac was big? Compare that to the Double Six Dollar Burger from Carl’s and it isn’t even a warm-up. Perception is an amazing thing. No wonder our kids out weigh us by the age of seven.

Gym class – Back in my day we were required to do push-ups, sit-ups, and run to pass the class. Now, I actually have an in-law whose child is taking her high school gym class via internet. No joke. She doesn’t even go to a gym, or a school.

Military – Remember when the military kicked your ever-loving ass to train you. Made you enter a gas chamber until you puked blood so you knew the effects of gas. Spit in your face and made you a hardened fighting machine. Now they can’t even get in your face without fear of a lawsuit. They are a politically-correct, equal opportunity employer,. So you can’t run a mile, come on in, we’ll find something for you. Call me crazy, but I would prefer the physically elite as my country’s bodyguard.

Grades – I read an article where some schools have forbidden red ink being used to correct tests. They say it has a bad association for the kids and seeing the red marks makes them feel bad. Way to prepare kids for the vicious world out there you idiots. When they are out of a job, I wonder if they will ask the bank not to use red ink when describing the negative $600 balance in their checking account. It should make them feel better.

Yellow Pages – Remember when it wasn’t just a link on the internet?

These are just a couple of things that make me fear for our future and pine for our past. I won’t touch on current music because if you have ears, you already know. Wow, if I am this disconnected by 32, I’m going to be insufferable by the age of 50.

Damn You Vacuum Man!

Five years ago I needed a new vacuum cleaner for the house, so I start checking the local stores to find something to replace the ol’ Phantom Fury. After talking with a friend, I head down to a little, independent vacuum salesman with a tiny shop in the worst part of town. When your vacuum dealer is wedged between an auto body paint supply and a pawn shop, and across the street is the porn store, you might want to keep driving. Nonetheless, I stop and head inside to see what he has.

I couldn’t imagine what this guy could offer because, let’s just say, if he sells one vacuum every week, he is probably ecstatic. I find a Hoover and he sells me on the 5 years of free bags and 2 years of in-house warranty including free belts. Free belts?...You kidding me? He is also a repair man, so I think it might be nice to have a local place to drop it off if we have problems. Plus, 5 years of bags? That is a whole lot of free bags. (BTW: He strongly opposed the bagless vacs and I listened.)

I head up to the counter and pay and then ask for my bags. Then it hits he…he has no intentions of giving anyone 5 years of bags, and here’s why. He hands me a little punch card with 10 circles on it. In order to get your free bags, you must come in for a single package every six months. My months were Jan. and July. If you don’t come in during those months, in the years indicated on the punch card, you are out of luck. Further, he will keep no record of your purchase, so you must have the original punch card to get your bags. I’ve already paid, but am a little angry that he is setting up a seemingly impossible scenario.

How often do you think about vacuum bags? Can you keep a punched business card for 5 years? Of course not, nobody can…but me. I decided right then and there that this guy wouldn’t beat me. He sold on me on something and then, like mail-in rebates, set up so many hoops to jump through that nobody could negotiate successfully. He had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.

So my wife and I make a vow right then and there to beat the vacuum man. We had our months marked and took in that raggedy little punch card every 6 months for 4 ½ years. We had some close call, hitting the last week, if not the last day of the month. I could see the disgust in this eyes every time we walked in for free bags and didn’t buy a thing. It was a thing of beauty. I had him on the ropes, we were so close.

But alas, we lost. Yesterday, August first, my wife calls me in horror.

“I forgot the vacuum bags” is all she says. She didn’t have to remind me that July was our month, gone, never to return, no more bags for you.

“Nnnnnnnnnooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” I shriek, as the receiver drops from my shaking hand.

The vacuum bag Nazi won. He knew it the whole time. Game over.

Vacuum man, I’ll see YOU in HELL!

You Can't Go Home Again.

I went to my hometown last weekend for a wedding and did a little nostalgic site seeing. Wow, things change. I cruised by the house I grew up in and it now resides smack dab in the middle of trailer trash alley. I tried to turn around in the cul-de-sac but the mountain trash had so many cars lined up on the street that I had to do a three point turn on the circle drive. I glanced over at my old buddy Dusty’s house and it is now a run down pile of garbage. It’s funny because I always thought it was so nice compared to our house. I looked through the fence that was missing most of the pickets to see a hoodless Fiero sitting in the back yard. No, there isn’t an RV access to the back yard. Why do poor people have so many cars? Where do they get them and why do they keep them. Cars on blocks in the yard is a cliché….someone should tell these people that. The entire town is comprised of people stuck in the 80’s driving cars from the 70’s. I guess having an emissions test does more than cut down on the smog, it also cuts down on the 1972 Chev. Blazers that are missing the hart tops too.

I also noticed that abundance of 70’s vintage home-built, wanna-be, monster trucks where the mullet clad driver had his 15 year old mate sidled right up beside him in the middle of that bench seat. Seat belts be damned! I honestly haven’t seen this driving phenomenon since 1987.

I had several hours to myself so I hit more of the old haunts. I went to the bowling alley that was a favorite hang-out. Noon on a Saturday and not a soul to be found. I went to the Skateland, to see if it was still around. It was, but not a person there either. The whole ½ of the town that I spent most of my childhood was now ghost-like and abandoned. I went to my Junior High and hiked up to the track where I spent so many nights trying to shed my blubber. It was cracked and old and the only person out there was practicing Frisbee. Alone. Frisbee is a two person game at least; unless you are really, really sad and lonely. Maybe he was getting his chops up for a big game later. Oh, and he was at least in his 40’s. Then, I headed to my old elementary school and it was still close to what I remembered with the exception of the four add on buildings and a parking lot where the soccer field used to be. Kids don’t need to run when you can get a couple dozen more cars in there. Of course, I wouldn’t let my kid walk to school in that neighborhood these days either.

Even the park that was famous for its WWII tank had changed. The tank is gone and was replaced with a skate park. Those WWII guys are all almost dead anyhow, who needs to remember that crap when you can have a sweet-ass skate park for the little baggy pants bastards.

I tried to go down to a fish farm in the canyon where I used to practice my fly fishing casts, but it is now obviously owned by Randy Weaver’s extended family as is it plastered with No Trespassing signs and threats of death, dogs, and guns.

As an auto parts delivery driver of yester year, I also ran a couple of my old routes to see the old delivery spots. Everyone is gone, closed down, and out of business. I realize that it has been 15 years or more, but doesn’t any business have staying power anymore? Every single dealership now has a different name as well. It is like a bizzaro world. Café Ole is now Café Meza, Taco John’s is now Indian Joes. I felt sad, a little mad, and disgusted all at the same time. Luckily, I have XM radio so I could go to the 80’s station to make the feeling of quazi-bizzaro time-travel complete.

Filthy Desk

Clean it up! I live in a sea of grey cubicles, no windows, fluorescent hazy lights, and the soft glow of computer monitors staring at me from every angle. The environment sucks bad enough naturally. I don’t need to look at and smell your filthy garbage too. Engineers are disgusting. Most of us share cubicles and have about as much work space as a those Asian kids making linens for Martha Stuart. 2000 thread count sheets don't sew themselves.

Even the most tidy of our ilk have the problem of space, so keeping complete order is difficult. However, exacerbating the problem with your four day old Starbucks cups, 32oz Wendy’s carafe from lunch, and no less than six empty diet Mt. Dew cans, is simply unacceptable. With these tight quarters, your space IS my space so give me a break and throw out some of that crap.

What’s worse is the fact that we take care of our own trash where I work, so those that choose to throw away their wrappers and banana peels often do so under their desk. That doesn’t help when you don’t dump your garbage until the bin is overflowing. The remaining half of Monday’s tuna sub is smoldering from hot CPU sitting next to your trash creating a make-shift kiln. I’m holding back the bile over here. So here are a few rules.

No wet or decomposing garbage in the waste baskets under your desk.

Replacement policy: if you get a new drink, the old one must be removed from your desk and disposed of in the proper place. Go dump out that flat, watered-down Dr. Pepper in the drinking fountain if you must. At least it gets cleaned.

No tuna at your desk – ever. I used to break this rule, but now know better. I’m here to spread the word.

Recognize proximity – If you can smell your food/drink, I can smell it. We are literally 3 feet from one another.

Empty your trash – Do this once a week whether you think you need to or not. Bread molds, milk sours, and the Chinese take-out carton stinks more than ever. I wouldn’t have to give you this rule if you would have followed Rule 1.

If your houses are anything like your desks, please don’t invite me over for dinner. I’m not coming. Again, I am amazed at the number of educated, inconsiderate slobs I encounter everywhere….and they complain that I am a clean freak. Call me what you will, but at least you won’t be smelling any old apple cores or last-night’s goulash coming from my side of the room. If anything, you will get the soothing aromatic waft of some watermelon hand sanitizer, and for that, I say “You’re welcome.”

RMS

Adolescence is a weird time. Puberty, sexuality, dating; all of this hits you at once like a cruel joke. I went through the normal crap, some of it never going away actually. For instance, I am bound to have acne until the day I die, and my beard is still as patchy as a 12 year old. My baby fat never went away, but at least I’m balding.

There is one thing that happened to me that I believe is unique, however. It was fleeting, lasting only 2 weeks..but it was so fowl and so nasty, that over 15 years later, my family still brings it up and mocks me as if it was yesterday…as if it was something I could control. I am speaking of something know to my family as RMS. It stands for Rotten Milk Shit. Nothing else quite sums up the combination of utter bile that seemed to weep from my pores. For two weeks of my life I had the over powering aroma of Rotten Milk Shit.

I don’t know where it came from. I was a psycho about hygiene. I showered twice a day, wore my green, fresh scent, Speedstick, I ate mints, I doused myself in Drakkar, I chewed 18 pieces of spearmint gum a day…yet I reeked like three week old sewage, trapped in jar, sitting in the hot sun for days. More interesting, I couldn’t smell it. It permeated my soul but was undetectable to my own senses, yet it was there. Everyone talked about it.

We tried to find the origin, was it from my mouth….from my ass? No one could tell, but it was nasty. Even my girlfriend at the time mentioned my interesting aroma. She tried to be nice, but her upturned shnoz made it abundantly clear. My brother coined the RMS phrase, and ever since, it has been attributed to me and a time in history that nobody wants to remember. Now I am self conscious, to say the least. Having this stinky knowledge, and being 16 years old, I damn near quit high school and moved to the hills.

I made it through, and like all things, time healed our nostrils and the stench subsided. I grew and got married, had kids and all is well, but the perplexing question of my unbearable stench for that two weeks of hell still plagues my mind. Has this happened to you? What was it? Did I have an anal slug? Did my armpits get infested with black mold? Did a rancid sea snake crawl down my throat and crap in my lungs, then burst in my belly releasing thousands of rotten undead baby snakes? Why me, why then? For those of you that have been ostracized for something out of your control, I feel your pain. I’ve been there. I was one stinky teenage bastard.

Horror-rific

I love them, my wife hates them. I’ve watched them my entire life and see pretty much every horror movie that comes out. I rarely find adults that will even sit through them. High quality, B-horror, independent swill, nothing is off limits to me. I even bought Fangoria magazine when I was a kid to give you an idea of how demented I truly was. Now, at 32, I still watch and love them, and I really have no idea why. Maybe it is my way of keeping the demons inside at bay. Maybe it is just a connection with that part of the brain that makes us stare at a car crash. Maybe I should be locked up or at least be forced to see a counselor for my many, many issues. Anyhow, here is my list of “Must See” gruesome flicks for those with a taste for gore. They are horror-rific. Muhaaahaaha.

Poltergeist – I still can’t sleep with dolls of any kind in the room. Clowns ruined for everyone forever. Worst of all, that Zelda Rubinstein is the scariest little person I’ve ever seen in my life. I still have nightmares about her….and that voice. Meatwad. Meatwad. Stay away from the light. (Just typing her name gives me the shivers)

Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003) – Wow, that had some disturbing scenes, even for me…and I have no soul. Rock salt on a stump, while the guy is twisting on a meat hook? What kind of sick…

House of 1000 Corpses minus the ending – Rob Zombie had a fantastic movie going with the demented family…the ending ruined it, but the first ¾ was great. The clown guy is ridiculously foul.

Last house on the left – Many writers put this movie in their top 10 list. It was brutal for its time and still has you finishing the movie with that icky feeling. How long are you going to hold “Shocker” over Wes Craven’s head? This was good.

Halloween (2007)– Rob Zombie has an uncanny ability when depicting the lowest common denominator in society. When the stepdad comments on the stepdaughter’s “nice little dumper”, I wanted to slit his throat myself.

Jaws – You know you can’t even swim in a swimming pool at night….and it’s been 30 years.

Hellraiser – This series introduced us to the “Tortured Souls”. It is the kind of imagery that would make Satan weep.

The Shining – All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy….and those twins, come on. Kubrick is a creepy bastard.

Dawn of the Dead – The opening scene, with the neighbor girl in the hallway, good. Undead baby being born, awesome. Sniper taking shots at a zombie Rosie O’Donnell from the rooftop, Priceless. Zombie movies rock, and this is probably the best.

The Ring – That girl coming out of the well freaks me big time. And the dead girl in the closet, damn that’s nasty.

Faces of Death – These were popular when I was young. Supposedly all real stuff. Poor little monkey. If you know what I’m talking about you are a sick freak.

The Hills Have Eyes (2006) – Gotta love the deformed Cannibals, it’s a “can’t go wrong” formula, with the exception of Wrong Turn 2, that is.

Children of the Corn – Question me not Malachi, for I am the Giver of the Word!

Candyman – You know you won’t say it….look in a mirror and try.

Seven – I walked out of the theater with a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. They broke all the rules and left me furious and disgusted. Well done.

Evil Dead – Gotta give props to my boy Bruce Campbell. He is awesome. Farewell to Arms was on the nightstand, that is some funny shiznit.

Ghost Ship – The opening scene alone merits mention here. An anchor line filleting an entire dance floor? Oh my dear, sweet, feathery, Lord.

Nightmare on Elm Street – This is my number one of all time. I spent a great deal of my childhood idolizing Freddy. Every other movie in this series is laughable, but the first was excellent in every way. Don’t try to argue, it’s perfect. I’ll blog about my own Freddy gloves sometime. Yes gloves, there have been several.

Douche Squared

The guy on this phone message is awesome. I admittedly haven't been in the dating scene for a while....ever really, but I'm pretty sure I would be a fantastic catch if this is my competition. I'm not sure what the plural of douche is, douchi, douchon, douchod....but this guy goes way beyond singular doucheness...He is at least douche squared. Possibly even douche to the power of douche.

A Letter to a Friend

Dear Friend (you know who you are),

Please never, ever …ever recommend a “classic” movie to me again. You have tried and I have tried, but this isn’t working out. Remember when we were going to see Freddy vs. Jason in the theater on that fateful Friday night? As I was leaving work on Thursday, you said “You absolutely have to watch Jason Goes to Hell tonight because it ties directly into the movie we are seeing tomorrow.” I venture to the local Hastings and to my dismay; they don’t have a copy for rent. To my further dismay, the only copy they have for sale is $23. You said I must watch it, so I fork over the cash and take it home. If memory serves me correct, there is a point in the movie where Jason’s HEART crawls across the floor, lifts one of its ventricles, could have been an aorta, and the vein screams before it scurries off like an oversized spider. It screamed. It frickin’ screamed. What’s worse, the tie in part you mentioned was exactly 4 seconds long, I timed it. Jason’s mask is laying on the sand and a Freddy glove pops up and pulls in under. Wow, I wouldn’t really consider that a must see event, but even if it were, it couldn’t be worth the $6/second I was forced to pay.

I also remember a little show that you said was fantastic by the name of Streets of Fire. It did have Willem Defoe, but then again, he was shirtless and wearing rubber chest waders through the whole thing. Need I say more? OK, I will. You also said Eddy and the Cruisers was right up my alley. Tripe is delicious, big bursting mouthfuls of coagulated tripe, compared to this pile of garbage. It isn’t unknown because it was under the radar of Hollywood; it is unknown because it sucks major rhino.

Then we come to last night’s flick. I remember a long conversation where you stood and looked at me in amazement that I hadn’t seen one of the best movies ever made. You went on and on about the cast and the movie. So I got The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonsai Across the 8th Dimension from Netflix and sat down for some entertainment. I still don’t know how it ended, because nobody knows how it ends. If you can sit through that entire movie, you are a better man than I. I sat through Monster Man and Serial Slayer which were both filmed with a Sony Hi8 camcorder, yet I couldn’t sit through Bonsai. Monster Man actually had a sex scene where the girl used a Yoda voice and said “Take me you will, with your light saber, you must.” Oscar winning writing compared to Buckaroo.

We are obviously not in the same place when it comes to movies. I also need to publicly state that Armageddon, while an entertaining film, is not the end-all, be-all of writing, cinematography, and acting. No, I didn’t cry at the end and no, it didn’t change my life as it did yours. As for the Bonsai recommendation, I can say only this. Damn you my friend, damn you straight to the hot place. Fifth ring, turn left, fourth spit…and roast slowly.

Feeding the Ducks - Karma is a Be-otch 2

If you have read some of my other blogs you already know that I used to be a hunter. Duck hunting was probably my favorite, but I killed pretty much anything. The killing has mostly stopped, but Karma has kicked in again and my kids and I are paying for it in little ways.

I took my kids to the park the other day to feed the ducks. We took some bread and strolled down to the water where we threw out chunks to the overstuffed fat mallards and the strange looking mixed breeds that after years of hunting, I can’t even identify. My kids were loving it, laughing and giggling as they watched the little vacuum bills suck up the goodies. I think it is great because we are so close to them and the kids can really get a good look at them. The colors were bright even for the time of year. No eclipse drakes here (for the hunters out there).

Then it happens…again. Some old couple comes up to us with a disgusted look on their faces and start yelling at me and the kids. “Why are you doing that? That kills the birds. Feeding them causes them to stay here and rely on people for food. It screws up their migration. Don’t you know the damage you are doing?” My kids are scared and confused but I listen, gritting my teeth, begging them to leave in my mind, before the demons come out. Again, my kids are there, so I apologize quietly. Satisfied that my children were sufficiently saddened and I was adequately reprimanded, they walk off so very proud. My hands are shaking and all I can see are crosshairs on the back of their heads as they leave. I wanted to say so much, but I couldn’t in front of my kids. I am proud to say, that on occasion, I maintain my self control. Here is what I should have said.

“I hate ducks and plan to feed them to death with bread and grains and maybe even corn….the primary crops they feed on in Idaho anyhow, but I’ll feed them until they burst. It will be fantastic and messy at the same time.”

“The bag limit for hunting ducks in Idaho is 7/day for the three months of hunting season. I hunted for 15 years which equates to thousands of dead ducks by my hands. (Raising the bread) Here is to a thousand more. “

“Have you ever wrung a wounded ducks neck? You hold it by the head and swing the body around very hard and fast until the neck breaks. It is the humane thing to do when you only wound one. Let me demonstrate, it may be a little trickier with a healthy one.”

“I plan to kill these ducks in a couple of months, it is only right that I fatten them up first.”

“You think the bread is going to kill them? Nah, it is the Cyanide I laced it with.”

“Do you know what else screws up their migration? 4-shot travelling at 2200 feet per second.”

I understand that these people thought they were helping the planet and the ducks, but leave me and my kids the hell alone. If they knew the cold blooded damned killer they were talking to, they really wouldn’t be bugging me about feeding the ducks. Trust me, you want me feeding the ducks and trying to be a good dad with my kids. I know the other guy. The one I used to be. The one that is lying just underneath the skin. If he comes out, the only comment the coroner will have for their family is…..”They probably would have lived, if he hadn’t gutted them.”

Karma is a Be-otch

I finally got my due. I was busted for fireworks this year. The ironic thing is, I didn’t break any laws, I thought.

My wife and kids were out of town the week before the 4^th. They were supposed to be home by Wed. but an airline issue prevented that, so they had stay until Sunday. The 4^th was Friday night. My kids are 3 and 8 and were really excited about doing fireworks so I told them I would buy some and we would let them off when they got home. They were instantly happy, as was I. My kids are awesome and I love to see them get excited and enjoy these types of things.

Friday, the 4^th : I head to a stand and buy a meager amount of miscellaneous fireworks. I get some smoke bombs and snakes, ground bloom flowers and sparklers, and about 5 cones. I told the guy I wanted no screamers, because they scare the kids. So I don’t have much at all. That night, on the phone, I relay that the mission was accomplished and they wouldn’t miss a thing. They were thrilled.

Sunday rolls around and they fly in. Everything was pretty hectic so I tell them we should wait until Monday night so they can enjoy them.

So it is Monday night, 9:30pm. It isn’t quite dark yet, but I tell them we should get started so we don’t break the noise ordinance that goes into effect at 10pm. My wife and kids come out on the front lawn and we start our 10 min. worth of kiddie-works. Pop, fizzle…ooohh. Doesn’t matter, the kids love it. 8 min. in, a robust elderly lady rounds the corner swaddling a dog like a nursing child. Being considerate, I stop lighting off charges and wait for her to pass. I didn’t want to scare the puppy. She doesn’t pass. She stops and then instantly starts yelling at me. She barks “It is illegal to set off fireworks after the 4^th and it’s the 7^th so the 4^th is long over. My dog has to be sedated every night because of the noise. Someone is lighting off firecrackers. I have had to put up with so much of this crap.” And on and on and on and on and on. Now at first, I apologized and explained that I literally had only one cone left and we were done and that I was only doing this because of my kids missing the 4^th. I also explain that I have nothing illegal and only have these little kid fireworks, which I show to her. I’m keeping my cool in front of my kids because I know I’m not doing anything wrong. I just let her keep ranting… but she won’t stop. I understand I may be bothering you, but finish saying your piece and go. She started in again, “I don’t care anything about your kids, you stop, now. I can have the police here in no time.” So right before I black out, I just quietly say “Then go call them.” She takes my house number and walks away in a huff.

Now my kids are stressed, they don’t understand what was wrong. My three year old little boy was jumping up and down clapping a minute earlier and now we are all looking at each other and I have that heart pounding, someone is going to die feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wait for her to round the corner and light off the last cone, which none of us enjoy, and we head inside. It is now 9:45pm.

We get the kids in bed, I have my 5^th snack for the night, and then at 10:45pm I get a knock at the door. The police are there and ask me outside. They explain that they are sick of getting calls like this and start to reprimand me. I tell them that I was just looking on the internet and I can’t find any law that says you can’t light legal fireworks off on any day but the 4^th. He assures me it is illegal I the county although not technically the city and I can get a fine of up to $1000. I tell him that I kept all the spent fireworks and took the two cops around the side of my house where I had exactly 5 mini cones and a couple of spent ground bloom flowers. He looks at them and says “This is all you had?” “Well are you done?” I tell him that I was done 15min before 10pm so that I wouldn’t bug my neighbors. He says he is not going to waste any more time on this and apologized for wasting my time and disturbing me. Then he left. No fine.

Here is the irony, for probably 15 years, I not only purchased illegal fireworks, but put on displays that rivaled the Statue of Liberty show. I’ve blown up everything in the world and never been bugged by anyone. I’ve done more dry ice bombs, mortars, and m80s than the National Guard. I did stop this once I had kids…and was investigated by the ATF and OSHA, but that is another story.

I also spent the first 3 years in this house in agony because of barking dogs. They disturbed me constantly, barking all night, every night, but I never called the cops. The first time, ever, I disturb one of these bastard’s dogs…I have a cop show up. I realize she is old and lonely and isn’t happy unless she knows that one more person in this world hates her every single day. I know that she is so atrocious to live with that she even has to sedate her dog to get him to stay. I fully understand that she is a miserable person with nothing else to do, hence she stands at the window waiting for someone to bitch at. So why does she bother carrying on? Grab a hearty handful of the pill of your choice and….bottoms up.

I need to move to the country and move soon, because if I see that woman and her dog again, I can’t promise I won’t be wearing a suit made from her skin with a nice poodle pelt collar the next time you see me. The only question I will ask as she drifts off in her eternal sleep is “Was it really worth it?”

So Karma caught up with me, finally. I hope my kids don’t really have to continue to pay for the sins of the father, because if they do…my kids are in for a hell of a ride.

Competition and Pressure Ruin another Hobby

I consider myself a Jack of all trades when it comes to hobbies. I like to try lots of things and admittedly go overboard for short periods of time with whatever happens to be the interest of the month. I do have fun though and usually involve friends. The friendly involvement is the source of my problem, however. I’ve been at my current job for over 7 years and since, I have been pushed out of many of the things I love to do, because of competition and unrelenting pressure. Let me give some examples.

Duck hunting: My high school buddy and I watched the calendar for opening day and went as much as possible. We had a fantastic time even when we didn’t see a thing. Now, fast forward to my current situation; I have someone at work that likes duck hunting, but he is relentless. I have a wife and kids, so I can’t go out every week end. Apparently he can. So I head out a couple of times. The guy takes every shot to show how fast he is and he bags every bird. I let him take them to be polite, and not get shot. After a couple days he starts in and I hear about how little I go. This was right after we went, and it goes on continually. I’m hearing this every day. “When we going?” “Are you ever going to use those decoys again?” “Why don’t you store your Camo and guns at my house, you’re never going to use them again.” So I quit. I don’t go. Every time he asks I just say no.

Fishing: Exact same story as above. I quit. Not worth it. I have to be around these people 8 to 10 hours a day and I get so sick of hearing about it.

Wood Working: Same thing. I built quite a bit of furniture when I moved into my house which allowed me to purchase some fun wood working tools. Guys at work hear about it and then the hassle starts. “What you building now?” “Those tools are expensive, have you used the plainer much?” “Are you ever going to build anything again?” “Why don’t you let me use them, you don’t need them anymore.” So I quit talking about any project that I work on, and I don’t work on much anymore. They think I don’t work on anything anymore.

Music: I bought some instruments and got into guitar. I took lessons for a couple of years. I practiced regularly. Then I start talking to the guys at work. Some are into music, and are quite talented. There isn’t much competition as they are experienced and I am a newbie, but they also know that fact and make it quite known to me as well. So again it starts. Every day. “Did you play last night?” “Your music is so easy and uncomplicated.” “How many hours did you actually practice last week?” “Do you even use the drums?” So I quit, as far as they are concerned. They get together to play and I don’t act remotely interested. I fiddle around with my toys on my time, but never mention it. If they ask, I say no chance and the instruments are in storage.

RC: Several of us got into RC trucks. I know, I know. I built it up, dropped a ton of cash…and heard incessant hounding about how little I use it. The competition was fierce, who’s was fastest, who’s had more aluminum, who had newest parts. So I sold it at a fraction of its value and quit.

Now Blogging: A small group of current and old work buddies stared up blogs to vent and give the world a little of our twisted humor. It started fun, but soon turned into a competition. How many hits, how many international readers, how are you rated. They started advertising and hitting other blogs and promoting on websites and registering and voting and…whatever. I couldn’t do it. It takes too much time, and frankly, my work doesn’t allow me to do it there, so home is my only option. Nevertheless, I posted daily for a while for my own reasons, mostly fun. Last week was a rough one in many ways, so I haven’t had a post since last Tuesday. So it is midnight and I log on to their blogs to catch up and see that they both, independently, pulled my link from their pages. A week off, and I’m out. These are personal friends. I feel a little slighted, and I may kick a little ass. They are close enough friends that I can safely call them pricks, big fat pricks. I know they have got to save those 14 characters for a better link, meaning someone that generates more traffic and has at least one post a day, but come on. If they never posted again, I wouldn’t pull their link, frankly, because some of their old posts are hilarious. I'm prone to over reaction but it just proves my point again, it is about the competition, not what we started, but how everything inevitably ends. So I quit. Not completely, but as far as they are concerned, I quit.

Like all of my hobbies, they are only fun if you can do them when you like, with people you like. Once it becomes a chore and a competition….screw it. I’m out.

Mullets

My hair was awesome. During high school I sported a fantastic business up front, party in the back mullet. I wore it with pride as if the length of my hair was somehow proportionate to the length of my….. Mine fell to the center of my back and was always in perfect form. The all-one-length grunge look that was emerging disgusted me. I had to blow dry and brush it methodically every morning, it took an extra 20 min or so to get ready for school, but I loved my hair. To those women who chop off their hair and say “You have no idea how much work it is to keep hair that long” I say “Yes, I absolutely do, and it is worth every second.”

The mullet has gotten a bad rap but I’m sure it will be back. It now seems to go hand in hand with the trailer trash, but no one was saying that when Metallica wore them (or maybe they did). If people actually brought back bell bottoms, I’m sure the mullets will get another run….I’m waiting patiently, but at the rate I’m losing hair, I don’t think I’m going to make it.

My wife and I dated right after high school and she hated my hair from day one. (She says that, but I was a black leather jacket wearing, AC/DC playing, red Trans Am driving, punk that she ended up marrying. So I think she was a closet mullet freak.) Compound that with the fact that I was going to attend a very conservative University, and the hair had to go.

I was adorned with those luscious locks for four years and was sick at the prospect of cutting them. So I took it a step at a time. I went to a hairdresser and had her cut one to two inches a week for the several weeks leading up to my departure to college. The one thing I did get out of the deal was an agreement I made with my then girlfriend, now wife. I cut my hair because that is what she wanted; so she had to agree not to cut her hair, because that is what I wanted. Her hair was and is still quite long and very sexy. The agreement: the day she cuts her hair is the day I stop cutting mine. If she wants the short and sassy look, she knows that I will bring back my mullet and wear it with authority.

Aside: Skiing just isn’t the same when you don’t have 14” of hair pushed out the back of your Denver Broncos baseball cap. As you dart down the hill, it gets pulled back by the wind creating a might flag of speed and grace.

If you are unfamiliar with the life and times of the Mullet clad, check out the classifications on this site. It is hilarious.

http://www.mulletsgalore.com/

The Great White-Trash Ninja - Part III

The training was brutal, but the test was still to come. Becoming a hired assassin in a rural community is difficult, compound that with the fact that I was nine, and it is nearly impossible. My trials must therefore be manufactured in the form of an obstacle course and a night time run through “The Gauntlet”.

To prepare for the trials I had to wear appropriate Ninja clothing. I picked my darkest pajamas, my mother’s robe belt, and a dark pillowcase with a slit cut for my eyes as a headdress.

The course consisted of sprinting, undetected past the cows, scaling the wall of the barn, and diving into the upper door. You must land on the stack of hay and then get to the walls quickly. There was a railing that went along the wall that one must shimmy across until you got to the window on the other side of the barn. Once you exit the barn, you had to get to the fence without touching the ground and sprint along the upper rail. A fall, would mean failure, if a cow turned its head, you’re done.

At the end of the fence there was a ditch that had to be cleared with a single jump. At this point you would be exactly behind the next door neighbor’s house. From there you had to move, undetected by the neighbors, through their trees, back to our back yard. The weapons were waiting, along with several cardboard foes. First, the bow. My single arrow had to hit the target fatally and then you would need to dash at the dying cardboard and finish it with the second weapon of your choosing. You know the Nunchaku was my choice to finish the job. You would then turn and throw your stars and spikes at a second enemy and then use the blowgun on the third. Every shot had to be true.

I will spare you the drama; I passed the course in record time. There were a few places that tested my skill to their very limit, but the training had paid off. I don’t believe any Ninja since has done as well. The course record will remain mine, and mine alone.

The Gauntlet was next. We had a concrete breezeway on the side of our house that became “The Guantlet”. The night was black as pitch and my brothers went out first to set booby-traps for me. Boxes, sticks, trip wires, whatever were fair game. My job, to get through alive. They had blow guns and paper stars and all I had were my wits and my training.

I sprinted through jumping and dodging, calculating and assessing. I dodged most but took some hits too. I darted for the exit door, it was just in reach. I would barrel through and down the two steps to my well deserved victory. In my elation, I lost focus and missed the tiny, invisible, razor wire that my brothers had placed at ankle level across the exit doorframe. I hit it and flew forward, down the steps skinning my hands and knees in a bloody disappointment. Who the hell puts a trip wire in front of steps…in the dark? I digress. I was about to give in to the pain when I remembered my training, controlled my thoughts and pain, and stood up with honor. I was victorious, I was still alive and I was on the other side of “The Guantlet”.

Now that I was a Ninja, I could put my weapons in their rightful place. Every one of them was hung on the wall next to my bed. A couple of Asian bandanas were tacked up as well to emphasize my new roots. No need to keep them a secret. I had earned them.

The tests were difficult but something special got me through. I repeated a song in my head when things got tough, “You’re the best, around. Nothings gonna ever keep you down”. It worked for Ralph Macchio, and it worked for me. I was nine. I was a Ninja.

The Great White-Trash Ninja - Part II

A Ninja’s training is rigorous and requires mastery over the mind, body, and spirit. As a nine year old, I broke my training into these three categories.

The Mind: As a Ninja, I had to be sharp and constantly aware of my changing surroundings. I would create exercises where I would run through a room and then write down everything I saw. Any potential hiding spots, potential points of entry and exit for me or an attacker, even the color of the towel lying across the chair were all facts that my mind must capture and assess in a flash. With a split-second glance, a Ninja must be able to completely evaluate the situation and recreate to perfection that which he just saw. Any miscalculation could result in the death of yourself or an innocent bystander. You will be battling other Ninjas remember, not your typical 3rd grade bullies.

The Body: Mastery of all of Ninja weapons is prerequisite to embarking on any umm……Ninja mission that requires a Ninja. Nunchaku was my specialty and I spent hours in the back yard perfecting my craft. The ability to strike with said weapon is really not the point. Most foes will cower in fear when they see you flip those sticks in a blur about your face, chest, neck, and head. I spun them across my legs, waist, armpits, and hands leaving some bruised flesh which, to me, were really badges of honor showing my expertise in an ancient art.

The other weapons were secondary but I did practice them all. Side note, trying to throw a Chinese Star with your toes is not as easy as it seems. Specifically, without a split-toe Ninja boot, you’re playing with fire when using sharp Swather blades for stars. Also, I’ve hacked and beaten apart countless cardboard boxes with various Ninja tools. A cardboard box when adorned with a drawn face and body becomes a very lifelike training dummy.

When conventional weapons fail, you are left with the most deadly Ninja weapon of all, your body. The knuckles must be hardened and callused so I would practice punching a wooden fence. I would focus all of my energy into the slab of my hand and practice the “Dim Mock” by breaking stick after stick, pencil after pencil, board after board. The feet and legs must be limber so I would stretch and volley a flurry of round house kicks into the air. I would punch and backhand, crouch and pose. Every digit became honed, every digit became deadly.

Reflexes are also an imperative. To hone this skill, I would go to the back yard with my brother or sister and play a deadly game of lawn darts. These are illegal now for a reason. The twist was, instead of just trying to hit the little loop, we had to catch the darts mid-flight. You learn very quickly to reach late rather than early. After this became too easy, we moved to arrows. Every quality Ninja movie shows a Ninja catching an arrow. True to form, I had a friend shoot my arrow at the fence. Using lightning speed, I would strike down with my hand and try to catch the flying spear. I don’t wish to brag as the Ninja is always humble, but I will just say that they can be caught. Don’t try this at home kids…I am a Ninja.

A Ninja must have perfect balance. To train I would study the animal with perfect balance, the cat. Note that it always lands on its feet. As an exercise, I would lie on my back and try to flip over onto all fours as quickly and quietly as possible. Further, we also had many wooden fences that I would walk across. I would run from fence post to fence post on the top rail where I would then stand and practice the infamous Crane-Kick. I would also stand on the ground and jump up onto the lower fencing rail and try to stick the landing without using my hands.

The Spirit: Mediation is a Ninjas best ally. If you were captured by, let’s say, 500 evil Ninjas (because that's how many it would take), and were subjected to torture, you must be able to step your mind outside of your body so that you feel nothing. Kuju must therefore be regularly practiced. Closing one’s eyes and meditating while making shadow puppets and gang signs is the only true way to connect with your Qi.

Now that my mind, body, and spirit form a perfect triangle of death, I have but one thing to do…put my skills to the test.

The Great White-Trash Ninja - Part I

This is part one of a multipart series illustrating how at a very young age I became nothing less than a full-on, phantom of the night, havoc reaping, fearless Ninja Warrior. Thus my story begins.

It is 1984, you’re nine years old, and you want to become a Ninja. You watch the popular American Ninja series, Enter the Dragon, anything starring Chuck Norris, and a host of other “training” videos to study your moves and to learn about your implements of death. Your path to becoming a Ninja requires martial arts, but let’s forget about that for now, you’ve got to get some weapons. Problem is, you are also poor white trash and couldn’t rub two nickels together if your life depended on it. Ninja weapons don’t look cheap, so like Luke constructing his light saber, you must build your own. The following is a true account of how I did precisely that. The gear:

Nunchaku (Nunchuks): First, let me say, if you call them numb-chucks…I will kill you with a throwing star. Now, we need the wood to start. I checked the shed and sized up the handles on all of the yard tools, but knew my father would end me quickly if I cut them up. So I opted for mom’s broom handle. I took a hack saw and cut two 12” lengths. I screwed a couple of eyelets into one end of each of them and then hacked off a 5” chunk of chain from the tire snow chains in the back of the Pinto. Nobody would know. I attached the eyelets to the chain but still only had a semblance of a real weapon. Then it hit me, I took the black electrical tape from the garage and wrapped each handle completely in the midnight black sheathing. I now had my first set of authentic Nunchaku.

Tri-chucks or Segmented Staff: See Nunchaku, but add a center section so that you have three sections of wood separated by two lengths of chains. You can then hold two sections and whip the third around in a tornado of death.

Bo staff: Take an entire broom handle (yes had to steal another broom) and cut off only the threads. Wrap entire length in electrical tape. Tape mod – try wrapping the handle in one direction leaving a gap between wraps, then wrap using the same technique in the other direction. A pleasing zigzag of terror is the result.

Shuko (Ninja climbing claws): Ever wonder how those Ninjas scale a building? They use climbing claws strapped to their feet and hands. This one took some ingenuity. The strapping had to be very tough as it had to support my ample, nine year old, weight. I found the perfect stuff back in that Pinto. I cut out the back seatbelt and used the material as the base for my claws. I then took the pre-mentioned hack-saw and cut two, 4 tine sections out of my dad’s metal yard rake. We didn’t rake, we didn’t mow, what the hell would we rake? I then poked four holes in the wrap that goes around the palm and pushed the rake sections through. I repeated this for the other side and I had my climbing claws. Side note: I did try to scale a brick wall, but the seat belt just folded up in my hand. This still needs a little work and I wasn’t sure where to put the electrical tape either.

Ninja Throwing Spikes: You ever throw a pencil into the ceiling? That little parlor trick originated in ancient Japan with throwing spikes. A Ninja can drop a man at 20 yards with these little beauts. Take a 16-penny nail and cut the flat part off. Strap 4 of them to your wrist with some Velcro and you’re set.

Throwing-Star: The bulk of these were made with folded paper. Not as effective as the real ones, but good for diversions. I made a real one with Swather blades riveted together. I didn’t have a riveter, so I had to smash the rivet with a large rock. This was a little bulky to throw, but very sharp. If you don’t know what a Swather is, then you didn’t grow up on a farm….click here.

Long Bow: I found a super cheap (free), yellow, plastic, re-curve bow at a yard sell that didn’t have a string, or an arrow for that matter. I found some ½” cotton rope and cut it to the proper length. I opened up the mesh and pulled out the cotton center. What was left was the stringy outer mesh, that when stretched, became the perfect bow string. All of this is so true it is scary. So I tied it to the bow and was set. The yellow color was not a problem after I wrapped the entire thing in electrical tape. I rounded up a single target arrow from a friend and shot that thing at the fence at least a thousand times.

Blow gun: We had some ½ inch aluminum pipe in the garage from something. I cut a 12” length of it and wrapped it in electrical tape. It was perfect for shooting uncooked pinto beans. I could nail you in the back of the neck from 15 feet with that thing. You would never see it coming. Whhhhpppt. Ow!

Grappling Hook: Tried and tried. This can’t be built without a welder. Sorry, no grappling hook for this Ninja…trials included bent pipes tied to string, the remains of the rake tied to string, lashed together bent pipes tied to string. Alas, I failed.

Kama (Ninja Tomahawk): I actually found a Swather blade that was welded to the end of a 12” steel rod. It was the find of the century and, when painted black, was the perfect Kama.

Manriki-Gusari (Some kind of trip chain Ninjas throw): See Nunchaku but use a 3 foot chunk of chain and little 3” handles. Throw it correctly and it will wrap around your victims feet rendering them immobile. It is almost too easy.

Tetsu-Bishi (Ninja tacks): Just use regular tacks. When used in combination with marbles, this becomes deadly. Consider an attacker chasing you. You drop a few hundred tacks with about 20 marbles behind you as you run. They hit those marbles like a wet banana peel and whoopsi-daiz, down they come on a whole lot of pain.

Tanto (Ninja knife): Any old knife becomes a Tanto when the handle is wrapped in black electrical tape. I had several. Steak knives can work in a pinch, but really try for something non-serrated if you want to stay authentic.

Bokken (Wooden training sword): Wrapping paper tubes are your best bet for this. It is relatively painless when you are a beginner and has an amazing likeness to a real Ninja sword.

Ninja Sword: I had a friend give me an old, broken, fencing sword. It was nothing like a Ninja sword except I could strap it to my back with my father’s belt and it had a straight blade. Fools may believe a Ninja has a curved sword, but the diehards know that only the Samurai had a curved blade. Ninjas, like me, use a straight blade for killin’.

I had my tools, now I needed some skills. On to the training....

Inventions

Several close friends and family members know about some things that I have invented. By invented, I mean that I came up with an idea on my own, but others obviously had similar ideas as many were and are currently available. A have a couple more that will likely go commercial by someone else leaving me with regret and that “I should have tried to sell that” feeling. Also, because of personal beliefs, I couldn’t go public with a couple of excellent ideas that I know would have made me money….and I thought really hard about it too. I will leave it at that, but let’s just say they would have been marketed on some pretty scandalous web sites and I wouldn’t have wanted to tell anyone that the ideas came from me. Here are some other gems.

1) Topsy Tail – I don’t know if you remember this, but it was a little plastic loop that allowed you to take a pony tail and flip it back inside itself. I did this with my sister’s hair and a makeshift Topsy Tail approximately 2 years before we saw it on TV. I was a kid but actually thought that it would be a cool hair thingy to be able to buy. It made plenty of money.

2) Camping Totes – I thought someone should just compile camping necessities in an easy tote and just market the entire thing. Then, when you head out, you don’t need to do anything but grab the tote, and you never forget anything. Several years after this idea, which was really just a marketing idea, I walked into a sporting goods store and saw exactly this. I missed again.

3) A buddy and I wanted to sell a daily calendar that had funny names for sexual positions like “The Ultimate Warrior”, “The Stranger”, or “Ruty, Tuty, Fresh, and Fruity” on each day and have the definitions on the back. We know it would have been huge for college kids and guys in general. This one almost went to fruition, but we both had second thoughts about making bank on some pretty nasty stuff. A couple of months ago, we saw it in a store.

4) CPCs – Cotton Penis Caps. Women have no understanding of this, but after a man urinates, there is often a little drip left which can cause an embarrassing wet spot in the front of the pants. Dockers are the worst. I’ve tried tapping, shaking, wiggling, flicking, milking, and nothing seems to fix this. You think you are done, put it away and boom, wet spot. So we could really use a little manpon of sorts to block the floodgates. I haven’t seen this on the market and the details aren’t worked out, but I could really use a little capper.

5) Wet wipes for adults – A buddy and I discussed this because let’s be honest, if you got feces on your hands, you wouldn’t just wipe it off with a dry paper towel and go about eating your sandwich. ‘Nuff said. I hear they have this now too. BTW…Clorox wipes should NEVER be used for this. Wow, that stings.

6) Doughnuts filled with Soft Serve Ice Cream – If people buy deep fried Twinkies, they will buy hot, fresh doughnuts filled with soft serve. I haven’t seen this yet, but a county fair would be a great starting place to market it.

7) Handimals – I thought kids might like little animal puppets that had individual finger slots for the legs where the body rests on top of the hand. I did some searching and found that this had already been marketed and was actually called Handimals as well. Missed another one, name and all.

I realize that I have given away a couple here, but I have to be honest with myself, I will never do anything with them. I’ve proven that over and over. If you do perfect the CPC, let me know and I’ll buy some. These are just a sample of some of the stupid things I come up with. If you think these are all lame ideas please remember that the only difference between a stupid idea and an ingenious one is the amount of money it makes.