Opus

Eddie Murphy has made some absolutely shit lousy films for several years now. I will go so far as to say that the last really good Eddie Murphy film was Coming To America. So, as I sit here and watch it for the billionth time, imagine the delight when I entered the address for the fictional "McDowell's" restaurant into Google Maps:


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While I'll never get my "Big Mic" on, it's comforting to know I could get a Frosty.

What if....?

Stormtroopers had been in the debate last night?

How NOT to treat a lady

My favoritist mommy blogger (that I'm not married to) and hawtest Cancadian ever is celebrating her birthday today. But then an ex-pat Canuck residing in the Democratic People's Republic of Kalifornia came along and said she was older than she is.

If you'd like to make a donation to the estate of the deceased, please send check or money order to:

The “I was a dumbass and called a woman older than she is” Fund

Memorial service details to follow.

What'd you think I was talking about?

I'm not a fan of pussy.

Really, I'm not. All that hair, the smell, it's just too much for me to handle. And please don't get me started on the hairless ones. There's few things more hideous, more fugly, than a bald pussy.

Ick.

But, as much as I loathe them, pussy has it's place. Studies have shown that contact with pussy can help lower blood pressure and calm nerves. Hospitals and nursing homes are allowing patients to stroke pussies to improve their morale. Allowing your child to play with pussy gives them a lifetime of happy memories.

I've been neck deep in pussy for the past six and half years, but now, the pussy is dwindling.

Hornet found a new home last night. Rotormommy and I came to the conclusion that it's time for the cats to go. Between the surprises that they left all over the apartment, the constant smell of liter box and piss in the air, and their near constant fighting, its just time. Rotormommy put an ad up on craigslist and within 24 hours the offers to adopt Hornet came rolling in.

So, no more will I be kicking the cat out bed at night. No more will I pull still live mice from his jaws. No more will I pull yogurt cups off of his head.

Thanks for the memories Hornet. You were a good pussy. Even if you were a cast iron pain in the ass.

Secret Lovers

You'll never watch Sesame Street the same way again

WARNING- The following is not safe for work, home, convent, or school. Children and puppets should leave the room. The management is not responsible for damaged or broken computer equipment, loss of eyesight, or the wetting of pants. Not safe for those who are nursing, pregnant, or who way become pregnant. Consult your doctor before using. Member FDIC.

Marcus

Mr Fenix if you're nasty.

Heart attack waiting to happen

Fried.
Mac.
And cheese.
What can I say, I'm southern by birth and of Scottish descent. I'll fry anything.

Into the great, wide open

If there is one thing that I took away from the three days we spent in the that big, moving, metal box with the DIL, Plus 3, and the little brothers, it is a profound sense of sadness.

Being that my dad was a US Navy Corpsman that spent most of his time attached to the Marines, we moved. A lot. Something to the tune of I attended twentyish schools before even starting high school. Being a poor, enlisted family we couldn't afford to fly between duty stations once it was time to bid farewell to friends and familiarity, so we drove it. Many times all the way across the country.

From the backseat of various beat-to-death vehicles, my sister and I crossed this nation more times than Forrest Gump ran it. We've seen the Mississippi above flood stage, and so low that one could walk on the sand bars from one side to the other without getting wet. We've seen fog lift off of Florida swamps, and the sun rise and set over the deserts of the southwest. Flintstone village? Check. Grand Canyon? Check. Rocky Mountains? Check. Stuckey's pecan log? Check. Dead possum along the side of the road? A billion times, check. We saw everything.

As the miles of asphalt slid under our tires we had one source of interest and amusement that never let us down, ran out of batteries, or gave us chance to argue over who got to have it. The world flashing by the dirty and smeared exterior of our windows provided endless entertainment. Aside from making faces at other cars and relentlessly trying to get every trucker in the US to blast their horn at us by pumping our arms up and down, we glimpsed many amazing and wonderful things.

Hot-air balloons and hang gliders. Countless stars in the night sky. Mile upon mile of yard sales. Cars engulfed in flames on the shoulder. People whitewater rafting. Hitchhikers with mangy old dogs. There was always something to see and we were rarely if ever bored.

We'd cunningly announce our hunger and delighted in annoying our parents by reading every single food related sign along the road, until they relented to our insatiable need to be fed. They punished us with whatever country music managed to warble out of the stereo. If we were lucky, the batteries in our Walkman would last a day, but the fates would always conspire against us and we'd have to endure the warbling eventually. Our various companions included a plethora of stuffed animals, Mad Libs, coloring books, and comics. No mater how bad Conway Twitty sounded, how tired we became of writing “butt” into every blank space of the Mad Lib, or how fed up we were with discovering that Spidey would save the day by the last page, we were always at least distracted and delighted by what was just beyond the glass.

But apparently this isn't so anymore.

For three days I heard and bore witness to our future. A future where one's attention can only be held by pixels and buttons attached to a screen. A future where one simply pouted or slept when told to go without the pixels and buttons for a little while. With every stop came the same relentless question about playing with the pixels and buttons, despite being repeatedly told no. A future where one of the protagonists proclaimed loudly that he didn't care what was outside the window, and tried to draw the blinds so that his eyes would be averted to any of the splendor that passed by.

I resisted the urge to rip the devices from the hands of the children and hurl them into the wilderness of Appalachia. My loving wife prevented me from duct taping their heads to the window so they'd be forced to view the world outside. Plus 3 and the DIL thought it funny when I said I wanted to bet their boys on black as we passed Harrah's. I would have had they stopped.

This trip heralded yet another in the long list of reasons why the future frightens me so. Out there, along the highways and byways of this nation, children stare blankly into their video games. Somewhere a child is strapped into their seat watching “Ratatouille” on the flip-down TV. And as the miles of asphalt slide by, and inevitability of time catches them, they'll never know the wonder and amazement that awaits them on the other side of a pane of glass.

My wife's in A Whale's Vagina

If you don't get that, somewhere Ron Burgundy is crying.

Rotormommy is off for the week for training.

That means the boy and I are alone.

'Round the clock Elmo and booze to follow.

In the end, there's only two choices

Come November, you'll know what to do.