The Glass Half Empty

Posted on April 19, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I have to admit that I am not likely to ever be the poster child for optimism. Let’s face it: a glass half empty really is just that. Assuming there’s no free refills and no waitress to top it off, the glass will never approach fullness again; the process of evaporation alone assures its steady progression towards emptiness. If we apply this same metaphor to one’s lifespan, for instance, this argument becomes even more clear. Someone who is forty could claim that their “glass” is either half full or half empty, depending on their perspective. I would submit to you, however, that the fact the first half is gone is indisputable. You have, at most, only one half remaining. Unfortunately, the last half, having sat around for so long, won’t be as fresh or quench as well. Moreover, a fly who spent the day doing the macarena on a fresh turd out in the yard could land in it and start buzzing around in circles on the surface. Even worse, some klutz could come by at anytime and knock the glass over, shattering it and spilling its contents in an instant. I’m sorry, but the glass is definitely half empty, and the fullest it will ever be again. I’m almost fifty-one; if my glass is still half empty, whatever’s left near the end is going to be black with algae, smelly and ill-fit for consumption. So depressing.

I’m in a foul mood today and the newspaper, which I usually regard as one of life’s simple and necessary pleasures, did nothing to improve it. These are strange days, indeed. I have always been stupefied by the actions of those who lack a modicum of common sense (virtually everyone, it would seem); those of you who have followed this blog can attest to the fact that even the brightest stars in the skies of mankind (yes, me) still flicker now and then, and the newspaper daily and dutifully reports the misdeeds of the dumbest among us. Most days I take comfort in knowing that I maintain elite intellectual status not by my own merit, but through the almost unbridled stupidity of the rest of humanity. Today, for some reason, it is not enough. Here are but a few examples of why it’s time for another flood so we can start over again:

1) The George Zimmerman/Trayvon Martin incident. In my neighborhood, virtually everyone who walks down the street, cloaked in a hoodie or not, looks suspicious to me. I would not, however, presume to follow them for any definable reason, unless I had some kinky predilection to being pummeled about the head and shoulders by either an irritated crackhead or innocent pedestrian. (It’s a 50/50 proposition in this neighborhood, but in either case, I don’t). I’m pretty sure that following someone so they feel threatened, then shooting them after they turn on me doesn’t meet the standard of self-defense.

image courtesy of mtv.com

2) Justin Bieber, in an apparent attempt to broaden his appeal to now include all demographics, has changed his appearance to that of a lesbian version of himself. Now absolutely everyone can find him adorable. Perhaps this is the newest style and soon all men will look this way; though access to both restrooms in an emergency carries some appeal, I will continue to do my part to encourage the moderately clean, elderly hobo look.

3) In the local news, Tucson city government is in the midst of a budget crisis, much like most other cities. The powers that be blew over 230 million dollars in downtown revitalization funds, with very little to show for it. Currently, construction has begun on a streetcar that will ultimately take passengers from nowhere to no place, while the rest of the city’s roads have fallen into disrepair. Recently I hit a pothole so hard that I now have a prolapsed scrotum and my truck will only drive in counter-clockwise circles.

4) For some reason, though I find its popularity and very premise utterly ridiculous, my eyes are inexplicably drawn to the horoscopes. I am a Taurus; today’s horoscope claimed that “Push comes to shove far too quickly in the morning.” This statement had absolutely no practical application to my day until I recalled this morning’s bathroom visit. (In fact, it may have been there that I read my horoscope). No matter; these things are written in such a vague manner that anyone seeking relevance can find it. Are people really that stupid? And, if there is something to it, I resent the intrusion into the more basic functions of life, where advice and/or instruction are neither needed nor appreciated.

I could go on and on, but I’m sufficiently vexed. I’ll feel better soon. After reading about and often working amongst the garbage of life all day, I’ll go and coach some girl’s basketball. There I’ll see hope for humanity in the hard work and sweet nature of those girls, and find solace in the fact that there are still loving, caring parents who are doing a good job and want the best for their children. Then I’ll go home and get more of the same. Tomorrow, my mood will hopefully have improved and I can go back to enjoying the stupidity of others, and life as the guy who sees the glass as half empty.

Posted in Arizona, Children, Christianity, Family, Humor, Living, News, Parenting, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 25 Comments

Water in the Desert

Posted on April 16, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

We tend to take a geat deal for granted in our lives. We get pretty busy sometimes, and the things around us, though often beautiful, go unnoticed. Usually it’s because we’re used to them; here in Tucson, we take the sun for granted. It seems only on cloudy days do we take the time to look up at the sky, but just because the bluest, clearest skies are commonplace here doesn’t mean we don’t miss out by not seeing them. For people in the northwest, I’m sure the opposite is true; how many take the time to observe the clouds, and embrace the beauty of the rain? In nature, as in our everyday lives, it’s the unusual things that tap us on the shoulder and cause us to turn and take notice.

My family and I enjoy the desert surrounding Tucson. After a good rain (pretty rare in these parts), we like to go out and see the play of water in our favorite spots; the Sonoran Desert, already beautiful in its harshness, turns a softer cheek after a good soaking.

I Think the Wife Took These

One of our favorite trails on the northeast side of town always has pools of water, though the streams that feed them dry up between rains or periods of snow melt from the mountains.

It’s easy to see and appreciate the Ultimate Artist and some of His masterpieces. Best of all, they are interactive and constantly changing.

Posted in Arizona, Christianity, Family, Living, Photography, Travel, Tucson, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Other Ten Times I Nearly Died

Posted on April 13, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

As most of the faithful know, I avoid news, politics or any other subject whose very nature inspires contention amongst people with differing viewpoints. I have found, over the years and in often painful fashion, that it is by contention with the well-informed that my ignorance becomes most apparent. It has been said more than once (someone said it before and I’m repeating it now) that a writer should stick with what he knows. Well, I know me, and like most self-serving bloggers, that’s what (who) I tend to write about. Unfortunately, that particular reservoir is decidedly shallow, and what it does contain is very slow-moving, almost stagnant. Lately, when I drop my bucket into this “well” to draw from it yet again, it contains mostly algae, mosquito larvae and tadpoles rather than thirst-quenching substance. Perhaps you’ve noticed.

Well, too bad. Unless I write from the heart (that “well” is full of ashes; dead, thorny vines; coal-black ravens and black widow spiders), you’re getting the same meaningless tripe I usually dish out. We’re in the school cafeteria; you, the student, offer your tray hopefully to me, the warted, obese, hair-netted Bulgarian food service woman. I plop an unrecognizable, pungent glob of ish on your plate. You stare at it with a mixture of horror and revulsion on your face.

“What is this crap?”

“Light-Hodded Huma. You eat. Is Good for you.”

Since I wrote and posted Ten Times I Nearly Died in February, I’ve recalled several other near-death by accident and/or embarrassment incidents that happened in my increasingly ample life. Because I’m running out of ideas and, like most bloggers, am desperate for you to find me more interesting than I really am, I present to you now The Other Ten Times I Nearly Died, in no particular order: (If you hold your nose while you read it, it tastes less worse much better).

1)   My father and I went to San Carlos, Mexico in the summer of 1975 for a beach vacation. Where most people liked to frolic in the surf, dad liked to swim far offshore and tread water. Somehow, he convinced me to join him. As we bobbed in the water perhaps a quarter-mile from shore, something bumped me in the legs, hard enough to tilt my body in the direction of the impact. It could have been a dolphin, a seal, or perhaps a large sea turtle. No matter; I had seen the film Jaws the month before. The wake from my olympic-qualifying swim to safety hit Japan several hours later and swamped several small fishing vessels. As I swam, I actually hoped the monster would find my plump father a more attractive meal; after all, it was his fault we were out there.

2) On a summer’s day in 1974 I had just finished warming up for a baseball game. As I sat on the first row of bleachers, one of my teammates made a wild throw from left field that caught me in the corner of my jaw, just below the ear. Luckily, though I had been knocked unconscious, these were the days before concussions. Even luckier, my jaw was not broken. I couldn’t eat solid food for almost a week. (This would be a mortal injury if it happened to me today).

3) When I was seven, my family visited a public pool in southern Spain. The pool was enormous, the largest I have ever seen, and was jammed with literally thousands of people. I decided to swim underwater to the pool’s end. Though I made it, I was completely out of air when I reached the edge; my access to life-giving oxygen was blocked by a sea of humanity clinging to the side of the pool. I kept bumping my head into someone’s rear end as I desperately sought to break the surface of the water. Finally, with no time to spare, this person finally moved aside and I emerged, gasping but alive. Though thousands of people clogged the pool that day, the bum that only begrudgingly moved and nearly killed me belonged to my very own sister. This was yet another “coincidence” during my childhood that nearly led to my demise at the hands (or arse) of my fellow siblings.

4) When I was thirteen, I went to a water park in Phoenix called “Big Surf.” There was a mechanical wave machine, and if you caught the manufactured wave correctly on your small, rented raft, you would skip off the heads of swimmers on your way to the shore; it was great fun. As I raced across the water’s surface on one particular run, I saw the impediment too late: a huge woman in a bikini, plopped upon and testing the physics of a compromised air mattress. She looked like an immense mound of only slightly discolored cottage cheese stuffed into a bathing suit; her two grotesque albino ham shanks slapped idly at the water in a pathetic attempt to propel herself forward. Her fat foot caught me in the neck, just above my left shoulder; I slid beneath the surface like a herring thrown against a wall. I actually passed out for a second, and came to with a lung full of chlorinated pee water. Someone stole my raft, or it was engulfed by the cottage cheese. Either way, I was done for the day, and couldn’t turn my head for a week.

5) I played youth tackle football as a middle schooler. Pulled from my normal position on the bench and thrown into the game to play linebacker, I soon saw an opportunity to cheap-shot a running back whose momentum had been slowed. Just then, the ball popped out and glory beckoned. I pounced on the loose football, the point of which stabbed me in the sternum and caused me to lose my breath. The entire rosters of both teams, along with their cheerleaders, coaches, fans, mascots and a couple of passing cars then proceeded to pile on top, with the ball still standing on end underneath me. Instant panic. After twenty minutes or so, everyone finally got off and I was able to roll off the ball and breathe again. I slowly got to my knees, briefly regarded the remnants of that morning’s breakfast in my facemask, than gathered up most of my small intestine, which had been spontaneously ejected in the pileup, and teetered off the field.

Alicia

6) In the neighborhood pool, my middle school friends and I engaged in a heated game of tag, wherein those who were “it” would attempt to pull others to the surface before they swam underwater to the other side. Well, this time Alicia, a tall, beautiful, deep-tanned blonde was “it”, and I endeavored to swim a bit too close and make myself easier to catch. I needn’t have bothered; Alicia was like a Bottle-nosed Dolphin underwater (a really hot, long-legged, blonde Bottle-nosed Dolphin) and was upon me in a second. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and squeezed for all she was worth; I pretended to struggle whilst silently thanking the angels for having opened heaven’s gates to me. I soon submitted, but heaven quickly turned to hell: she wouldn’t let go. My mixed-martial art tap-out of submission turned into a frenzied, panicked fist pounding, and after what seemed an eternity, she allowed me to surface. I coughed and wheezed like an emphysemic smoker bobbing for apples and blew snot bubbles from my nostrils; I doubt she was impressed. This was perhaps the first time I learned that women, like most things that intrigue beyond good common sense, are dangerous.  

7) In elementary school, I was chosen by my teacher to be a crossing guard. Because of my grades and ability to smooch posteriorly at such an early age, I was elected captain, proving early on that an attractive resume doesn’t guarantee a productive employee. My friend and I would stand on opposite sides of the cross walk, pitching rocks and hitting them with our stop signs. After one particularly Ruthian swing, my sign detached from its handle, flew directly at my friend (thankfully he ducked), then curved upward and embedded itself three inches into the trunk of a large palm tree. Though he was nearly decapitated, I actually came closer to dying when Mrs. Jorgensen came out and found me dangling from the sign, bouncing up and down in an effort to loosen it from the tree.

8) While in middle school, I was pedaling my bike down a long street at a high rate of speed when it came upon me that it would be cool to swing my leg over and place both feet on the left pedal whilst still maintaining my balance. The bike fell over immediately, and I bounced along the pavement for several feet. Fortunately, again, the concussion had not yet been invented. As I laid in the street, pulling gravel out of the road rash on my arms and legs and marveling at my own capacity for idiocy, a tiny Basset Hound puppy came from a yard to greet me. (I defy you to find a cuter puppy than a Basset; unfortunately, they grow up to be adult Bassets). He was adorable, and I felt immediately better. Suddenly, I heard a great roar as Mama Basset barreled toward me; I had only time to stand before she leaped. Incredibly, she latched her jowls upon my crotch, and as momentum carried her past, she ripped off a chunk of my shorts and flew into the street. I jumped onto my bike, ignoring the pain as I furiously pumped my legs. She ran alongside, biting at my feet until her stumpy legs would not allow her to keep pace. I raced home, terrified that I’d become a eunuch, or worse, that I’d forever lost the ability to urinate with a definable stream, or worse still, robbed of that which other men took for granted before I’d ever been able to use it, or worst, all of the above. (A quick peek in the mirror once I got home allayed my fears).

Ain't She a Beaut?

9) A couple of years ago, I was in an old, high-scale neighborhood in northwest Tucson on a service call. I was standing in the back of my box truck looking for something I needed for the job; once I’d found it I went to step down onto the bumper to get out. For some reason, I missed the bumper (I likely tripped on the endless clutter on the floor; organization is not my strong suit) and tumbled into the street. It was a nice fall (it’s three feet from the back of my truck to the ground) and I was lucky to be unhurt. As I laid on my back, stared up at the sky and pondered my good fortune, a car backed out of the opposing driveway and missed my head by inches. The old bird in the passenger seat looked down at me in horror, then turned and shouted something to the driver. The Cadillac roared off and left me lying in a cloud of exhaust. To this day I am unsure if they thought they’d hit me or if I had been planning some complicated ruse in order to get them out of their car so I could rape/murder/carjack them. I prefer to think it was the latter.

10) I let my wife drive me around again last week. I watched the diving pedestrians, hood-flipping bicyclists and careening motorists impassively as my wife told me a story with exaggerated hand movements and jerks of the wheel. It occurred to me that God must yet have some plan for me, one that can’t be precluded by some bizarre accidental death. Though my thrill for danger has ebbed with advancing age, I almost feel secure enough to step into a busy thoroughfare without looking, knowing full well that my angels will save me. I hope that whatever His purpose for me, I am aware of its significance at the appointed time so that I will become more vigilant after it has passed.

Posted in Accidents, Children, Family, Humor, Living, Religion, Top Ten Lists, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Fishing For Trouble – Part II

Posted on April 10, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

stinky fish

I haven’t gone on a fishing trip in a long time. I used to love everything about it: sitting in a boat, fishing from just before dawn until deep into the night, with a cooler full of ice-cold, frosty malt beverages and a bucket of KFC extra-crispy fried chicken for sustenance;  for both exercise and to break up the monotony, the often dangerous and always exciting “Stand and Teeter While you Pee Over the Side”, being ever-mindful to gauge the wind direction and put the cover on the chicken bucket; at bedtime, a stuffy tent, or perhaps more simply a poolside lounger and sleeping bag set up at lake’s edge, with the constant rippling of surface water in your mind’s eye as you drift off to sleep; the camaraderie: precious time spent with friends or family, never awkward and always nurturing for both heart and soul; and the fish: mustn’t forget them, and the all-too brief and rare moments of adrenalin-spiking excitement they brought when the most clumsy, careless or dumbest of them would fall for our poorly presented offerings.

Now that I’m older, fatter and lazier (funny how the three seem to go hand-in-hand), fishing seems to have lost its allure. (Get it: Al-LURE?…Oh, shut up). Don’t get me wrong; I still like the idea of sitting in a boat full of beer and fried chicken and catching fish. It’s all the other stuff whose shine has dulled for me. I don’t mind peeing outside, in fact I think it’s one of the great benefits of my gender, but standing in a rocking boat presents problems at my age. Can I get my wallet out and drop it in the boat before I hit the water? When I fall, can I avoid an oar enema, or a spontaneous neutering when I land straddling the side of the boat with both my legs and my boys? I already smell like fish, which is bad enough; will I be able to stand smelling like fish and urine? Also, I like my bed; a sleeping bag on a chaise lounge would be a moderate form of torture these days. A tent shared by men who have been eating chicken and drinking beer all day would require a carbon monoxide detector for safety reasons, and at the very least some nose plugs or mouth-breathing for another.

In retrospect, most of the trips I took, romanticized by time and softened by repression, were in fact often imbued with danger, terror, hardship and inconvenience. For example:

image via wikipedia

1) My friend Bob and I drove down an old single-lane logging road, deep in the forests of the White Mountains of Arizona, in search of firewood. We came upon a very large Texas Longhorn steer standing in the middle of the road. (Leading us to believe momentarily that we had gone way too far east down this particular road). Bob laid on the horn; the steer slowly turned to face us. He honked again, and the steer began to walk in our direction.

“Dude. Maybe you should back up.” Bob instead chose to really lay on the horn, and the bull broke into a slow trot. He put the little Mazda pickup into reverse, and the bull responded by breaking into full gallop.

“Oh, (feces)!” He yelled, and this time really laid on the gas. I couldn’t help but notice that though we were moving backwards quickly, the bull was gaining and was maybe only ten feet away from the front of the truck. We needed more speed.

“Du…” As I turned toward Bob to tell yell at him to speed up, I was shocked to see that he was looking straight ahead at the bull. While we were going backwards. On a one lane dirt road. At a really high rate of speed. “Bob! What the (ding-dang diddly)!”

Amazingly, we were still on the road. Bob turned around and pushed the pedal to the floor, and finally the steer apparently felt he’d made his point and slowed to a trot. We spent the night spooning, having found no firewood to keep us warm.

2) When you catch fish, your hands smell like fish. No amount of soap, Comet or gasoline can remove the stink. Soon, your beer, your chicken and your sleeping bag smell like fish. Fish smells bad.

3) I always got burned to a crisp. You can apply sunscreen initially, but once you’ve caught something, it’s back to #2 above. No more sunscreen.

Both Were Often Needed

4) I never pooped the whole time I was gone. I’m a home team kind of guy when it comes to evacuatory functions; dropping a duece is, for me, a decidedly private matter. Behind a bush, with a dirty roll of one-ply and no newspaper to read? Thank you, no. It could, and always did, wait until I got home, even if we were gone a week. The fact that beer had replaced water for hydration usually made conducting business a much more painful and traumatic experience, akin to that of a full-term rectal birthing. (Stillborn, of course). The plumbers at Roto-Rooter often send me brochures of great fishing destinations in the hopes of maintaining our close relationship.

5) On one trip, Bob and I partied into the wee hours on the lake shore while my brother tried, futilely, to get some sleep. After a morning on the lake, we packed it in and started the drive home, my brother at the wheel. I sat in the passenger seat, leaned my head on the door frame and quickly passed out. After some time, I awoke to see great outcroppings of rock whizzing by my window, literally inches from my face. I turned and saw my brother, hands on the wheel, head tilted back, mouth opened wide and eyes closed. I think his snoring had awakened me. Incredibly, to this day he maintains that our near death experience was all my fault, exhibiting, as all Peddys do, the flawed characteristic of denied responsibility.

6) Tangled fishing line. If the drag is set incorrectly on your reel, you may look down after a cast and find your reel now looks like the groin area of an old Lebanese wrestler. There are fine curls of fishing line hopelessly tangled together; unless you have another rig, the next hour of your life will be spent cutting out the old line and then adding new line to the spool of your reel. The only alternative is to sit idly for the next eight hours and watch everyone else catch fish. Sitting on a boat while fishing is amazing; sitting on a boat sucks really bad.

If anyone reading this has a large, fully furnished, modern cabin, complete with a fully stocked refrigerator, that sits right on a lake (the cabin, not the fridge), and a balcony that extends over the water, I will make a wonderful fishing companion for you. If you want to rough it for a while, though, maybe call my brother. You should probably drive.

Posted in Arizona, Family, Fishing, Humor, Living, Travel, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 17 Comments

He is Risen!

Posted on April 7, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I often find myself, like most people, consumed with everyday life. Issues at work, with family and the constraints of time and of money seemingly engage in an endless fight for opportunity to weigh upon my mind. Stress attacks from all sides and, unfortunately, often from within. In response to these assaults on my serenity and well-being, I innately and unwaveringly rely upon myself  for solution. The cause, therefore, is often lost; the general has only marginal control of the troops, and his competence for strategy in battle is lacking at best. I am continually frustrated in my attempts to affect change or find resolution to the issues and stresses of my existence.

I claim to be a Christian man. I believe that God is the creator of all things, and because I believe in Him, will someday reside with Him in the kingdom of heaven. Part of belief in God is asking for His help; by relying on myself to affect change, am I denying His power in my life? My relationship with Him is based on faith; by repeatedly acting alone on my behalf, do I reveal I have no faith and therefore no relationship? Because I do not seek Him when I have need, am I being sinful? I have been in a bad place for some time; I have felt as though I am weak and unworthy to call myself a Christian.

My wife wanted our family to have our pictures taken by a professional. I resisted, because that is my nature when asked to spend money. I finally relented, because that is also my nature: to resist until my folly is made apparent or public, or both, and then relent in silent, unacknowledged defeat. We received our pictures this week, and that which has always been before me was revealed to me in dozens of captured images: I have an amazing family. My wife is beautiful; my daughters, breathtaking; and my son, a strong and handsome  young man. (Thank God for recessive genes). The hand of God is apparent; His works, like Himself, are perfect, each in their own way. As I look at these photos, I play the lives of my children in my mind, and His presence and influence from infancy to adulthood is clear to me, whether or not I remembered to ask for it. I look at my wife’s face and think not only how lucky am I to have her?, but also how was I able to trick her so easily? 

I have stress and worries  like most people. Money, or rather the lack of it, is a never-ending source of consternation. It only took a few pictures, however, images of the briefest moments in time, to help me realize that He has blessed me far beyond wealth and for all my remaining days. To take on my worries and concerns alone is the act of an arrogant, selfish and sinful man; I hereby resolve to ask for His help in my life. Though I will fall short of His sight each day, I am forgiven through faith; His mercies are new every morning. Easter Sunday is a joyful celebration of this covenant. He is risen!

Posted in Children, Christianity, Family, Living, Marriage, Parenting, Religion, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Ten Gastric Ways of Making Me Talk

Posted on April 1, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

One great thing about being an adult is getting to make your own choices. With respect to food, and for me almost everything is, this means being able to eat whatever I want. (As long as the Healthy-Choice-Wife-and-Kids aren’t around, although in fairness they don’t stop me. They merely tell me, subtly, how I’m slowly killing myself: “I’m not taking care of you when you fall apart.”, or “Nice choice, doughboy.” I almost feel compelled to make better choices. Almost.). I remember as a child being forced to eat some of the most abhorrent foods because someone in power dictated that they were good for me. I recall sitting alone at the dinner table, an hour after everyone else had finished, because I couldn’t leave until my plate was clean. My mom was on to every trick; spitting into napkins, sneaking into the bathroom, etc. Even her prized poodle, who would eat virtually anything (including my turtle), would often carry my desperate offerings into the living room and drop them at my mother’s feet. The dog liked to eat cat poop; how bad must this food have been?

I’m proud to say that many of these defilers of the oral senses haven’t passed my teeth since those early days, and never will as long as I can feed myself. I have to think, though, that even when I’m a diapered, wrinkled blob bewildered by Alzheimer’s, I’ll still be able to tell edible from vomitous. I feel like I’m a pretty tough guy; if you want information from me that is vital to national security or threatens the safety of my family, do your worst. I’ve already hurt myself in some of the worst ways imaginable. Threaten to force-feed me with certain “foods”, however, and I might sing like Pavarotti in the shower. Since either scenario seems unlikely, however, I begrudgingly offer Ten Gastric Ways of Making Me Talk,in no particular order:

All Images Via Wkipedia

1) Broccoli – Named after some poor Italian peasant who ate a weed out of desperation. Everything about it is disgusting: when eaten raw, those little beady ends have the texture of something dropped in the dirt. When cooked, the house smells like Jabba the Hutt ate some bad Mexican. There simply are NO foods that smell awful and taste good; it’s nature’s way of warning you to stay away. This is one of the more insidious poisons, having passed my guard more than once because people somehow feel the need to try to hide it in all sorts of dishes, like casseroles and even Lasagna. (I love lasagna; adding broccoli is like dropping a couple of turdlets into a nice glass of beer. Why would anyone do that?). Fortunately, I can usually spot it and can definitely taste it in the first bite.

2) Cauliflower –Albino broccoli.

Genus Tastis Licrapicus

3) Fish – Any and all kinds are most foul. Freshwater or salt, they both taste like…well, fish. No one can tell me they enjoy the smell of fish; it stinks. A marathoner’s jock strap would likely smell better to me. (Never going to know for sure; even if I could run a marathon, I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t smell my jock or anyone else’s afterward if I did. Pretty sure it’d smell like fish, though).  Again, if it smells bad, it’s going to taste bad. I’ve been told that fresh salmon and swordfish are among the tastiest. Well, I tried them both and felt betrayed by those who recommended them. My wife and I went to a seafood restaurant in San Diego for our anniversary (the steak was pretty good), and my wife’s eyes rolled back in her head rapturously after every bite of salmon. She suckered me into trying it, and I spent the next ten minutes apologizing to the lady at the next table for spitting food in her hair. Tuna from a can (fresh sucks), mixed with pickle juice and tons of mayo, is the best I’ve tasted.

Hmm...Something's Missing...

4) Brussel Sprouts – …Sorry. I shuddered involuntarily after having typed the name. These little balls (perhaps those of the Belgian version of the Jolly Green Giant) from hell are particularly bad. When my mother cooked Brussel sprouts, the house smelled for hours like the diarrhea ward of a Delhi hospital after an outbreak of dysentery. She would plop three or four of these onto an otherwise flawless plate of mashed potatoes and fried chicken, and their juices would render the whole plate a toxic waste dump.

roachicus aquaticus

5)Lobster/Shrimp – Cockroaches of the sea. Everything that sinks to the bottom of the ocean becomes fodder for them. They even look like roaches. The first guy who pulled one of these out of the water and decided to eat it must have been desperate indeed. Soak them with butter, batter-fry them, drown them in cocktail sauce; a roach of any other color is still a roach. Though crustaceans, they taste like fish which, as we’ve established, is disgusting.

6) Liver – This is truly mind-boggling to me as a dietary choice. The liver is the body’s filtering system, involved in the processing of digestive products and neutralizing toxins. By its very nature, therefore, it is a food to be avoided. Have you ever seen a duck in a pond? Throw anything at it you want and the duck will try to eat it. The French are weird.

7)  Limburger Cheese – Holy cow, what a stench, like that of sweaty anus. (I’m guessing, having never directly smelled one before. The sweaty anus, I mean).

8) Anchovies – I realize anchovies are a type of fish and therefore belong in #3, but because they are used so often as an ingredient and I’m running out of ideas, I give them their own category. Anchovies on pizza are sacrilege. My mother-in-law, who is the best cook I have ever known, once put anchovy paste in her deviled eggs. I paid the ultimate price for sneaking into her fridge and stealing one at a family get-together. Since that day, I have assigned one of my children the job of the King’s Taster, lest she try to poison me again.

9) Sauerkraut –Leave it to the Germans to make something already as gross as cabbage downright toxic. Literally translated, it means “sour vegetable.” It’s often served with weinerschnitzel, apparently to enhance its wonder by pairing it with something that smells and tastes like it came from between Adolph’s toes.

Veggis Snotius

10) Okra – I have only tried this vegetable once. The taste, which was unpleasant, was exceeded only by the slimy texture, as though someone with the Spanish flu had prepared it. I have avoided trips to Louisiana to see relatives that I love because of it.

I honestly feel that people only began to eat these things because they were on the verge of starvation. These same foods have gained acceptance by the middle and upper classes when it was discovered that they were “healthy” and full of vitamins. But you know what? So is a bottle of Centrum. You might live longer than I will, but my food tastes better, is virtually mercury-free and I don’t have plant parts stuck in my teeth. (I have meat stuck in my teeth). And I’ll take much longer to decompose then you once I’m gone, too. So there.

Posted in Food, Humor, Living, Top Ten Lists, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 29 Comments

Lady on a Spindle

Posted on March 27, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I got into the fountain and water feature “industry” right after college. The economy was a big, steamy pile of doody back then ( though not as bad as today’s, which is a big, steamy, smashed onto the bottom of your shoe pile of doody) and work was hard to find. I responded to an ad for a store manager/bookkeeper position for a local retailer and manufacturer of concrete fountains and amenities here in Tucson, Arizona. I had recently ended my five-year stint as a pharmacy technician (though consistently and pleasantly pain-free during my employment there, I was only pooping twice a month, so it was probably a good time for me to leave), and was anxious to restart a new and remunerative relationship with an employer (i.e. I was broke).

Within a year the owner, a creative man completely lacking in any business acumen, sold his company to satisfy a tax lien. The new owner wanted no help counting his money, thank you very much (the fact that he kept it crammed so far up his southern-most orifice would have made it difficult in any event), so I became an installer and eventually a foreman. Eventually, the business sold again, this time to a cutthroat, nasty couple who quickly placed their son in charge and thankfully headed off to Mexico.

Their son was an interesting character. Short, portly, red-haired and bearded, most often dressed in a button-down or Hawaiian shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts, he looked like a leprechaun vacationing in the Catskills. He was pleasant enough, but decidedly oblivious to good retail practice. He claimed to be a great salesman; by way of proof, he often followed prospective customers around, playing his acoustic guitar (he was terrible). Other than the select few who enjoyed being annoyingly serenaded by a ginger-troll as they strolled through the display yard, this tactic seemed, on the whole, rather off-putting to most.

He claimed to have “The Gift of Gab”; he once told a customer and his young son that an albino catfish in a display pond was the result of a brief tryste between a channel catfish and a spotted koi. He received a letter from the same customer some days later chastising him for his dishonesty, stating that even his six-year-old son knew the fish were of different species and therefore incapable of reproducing, and that he would never spend a dime in his store. The letter bothered him only for the final declaration. On another occasion I was about to close a sale with a woman when he came up, introduced himself as the owner (puppet owner, more like), and proceeded to ask her when she was due. Her “I beg your pardon?” and my violent head-shaking did nothing to deter him, as he then offered that his wife was pregnant as well (this lady, though ample, was clearly not) and due in two months. She left in a huff, and he immediately asked me what I’d done. It took no short amount of time to convince him the fault was his.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia

His finest moment, however, came one summer morning when a customer came in, fountain pump in hand. She was in her mid-forties, very attractive and clearly sweet; I liked her immediately. Though all she wanted was a replacement pump, my boss took the opportunity to display his technical skills (he had none) by taking apart her old pump.

“See this part here? This has gone bad.”

She dutifully leaned over the counter to see and promptly plopped her cheek onto the spindle we used to hold our sales receipts (see image, above right). She quickly straightened and stared wide-eyed, the spindle sticking out perpendicularly from her face; several yellow invoice receipts hung from it and covered one eye and the affected cheek.

“Oh dear…oh, my.” She sputtered, and with that pulled the spindle (and invoices) from her face. A deep, 1/8″ hole appeared in its place; I stared, horrified and yet entranced by the bloodless cave, a good inch deep, that originated just below her cheekbone. It appeared that at dusk thousands of tiny bats might fly out of it in a black, curving torrent. Within a couple of seconds, however, the torrent that emerged was deep red and seemingly endless. I ran and got her some paper towels, which she held to the wound to stem the flow of blood. All of this time my boss stood silently (thankfully, lest he say he hoped the wound wouldn’t affect the baby) and stupidly unhelpful.

“Goodness, I’m such a klutz. I do this sort of thing all the time.” She politely refused any further help from me and managed to remain sweet and good-natured through the whole sordid affair. She bought a replacement pump (yes, he charged her), said thank you and goodbye with exquisite grace, and quickly left the store. I watched her pull away and silently prayed that she had received a tetanus shot recently and would otherwise be okay.

When I walked back into the store, my boss stared back at me, still silent. His bloated face shined redder than his hair, and then he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he cried; it didn’t seem to matter that he had exposed himself to considerable liability, or that another inch would have cost her an eye. He did, however, manage to move the spindle underneath the counter.

To the lady with the spindle in her face, I hope you were okay. The fact that you were so kind and sweet made your wound nearly as painful for me; I wished there was more I could have done to help you. I have to admit, though, that had you been the type of customer I was used to dealing with in that store, I likely would have laughed even harder than he.

Posted in Arizona, Humor, Living, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 12 Comments

No Stones for the ‘Stones

Posted on March 23, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

"Some Girls" Album Cover

It was July 21, 1978, and my friends and I arrived at the Tucson Community Center Arena around 9 a.m. It was a sunny day (imagine that) and shaping up to be another hot one (ditto). In addition to some monsoonal humidity and the buzzing of amorous cicadas, there was also some excitement in the air. We were all in high spirits; talking, laughing and joking and speculating on what it would be like to be among the first in line for the biggest concert to hit Tucson…well, ever. As we rounded the corner of the Arena towards its entrance, we were struck by the absurdity of it all: there were hundreds of people already there, apparently oblivious to the ungodliness of the hour (hey, we were seventeen; 9 a.m. was ungodly). We got in line and began discussing a collective strategy to reestablish our rightful place ahead of all the overly – obsessive freaks once the doors opened.

The Rolling Stones were in town, one of the final stops on their Some Girls tour. Back in the 1970’s, Tucson was somehow able to attract some of the biggest groups of the day; no one was bigger than the ‘Stones (we still attract some of the biggest groups of those days, the bandmembers now in their late sixties and still trying to suck the teat of fame, usually by playing in the smaller casino venues). Ticket day should have clued us in on what was to come: they sold out very quickly, and it took some very creative action and downright rudeness on my part to ensure we were even able to get to the ticket windows in time (sorry, dude, but you were fat, old and slow, and I was in the prime of life; you foolishly chose civility and reason while I was still within reach, and your screams of shock and profanity as the window shut in front of you and I ran, tickets in hand, only enhanced my notoriety amongst my peers).

Disappointment over not being first in line notwithstanding, the day’s wait began nicely enough (the doors wouldn’t be opened until 7 p.m.). People sat around playing cards, smoking and furtively sucking beer or whiskey and just generally getting along. These were the days before regard for personal safety, bottled water and plain common sense, however, and by noon it had gotten very warm. The beer was now hot, the whiskey just plain nasty, the people becoming equally so, and water was what we all needed and wanted. By 2 p.m., the crowd numbered in the thousands and everyone stood to better hold their place in line. There was no shade to be found anywhere, no relief in sight; we were in it for the long haul.

By 4 p.m. the line had become a pulsating, massive mob of sweat-soaked humanity. The people in the back, apparently horrified by so many people having arrived before them by the ungodly hour of 5 p.m., began to push forward. Those of us near the front, unwilling to lose our hard-earned positions, began to push back. The result became these massive waves of people, pushed forward by sheer inertia, then repulsed backward after crashing into an unyielding sea wall of mankind. For a few minutes, it seemed kind of fun, but even at the tender age of seventeen, I was keenly aware of my own mortality. My feet would leave the ground for seconds at a time as I was swept in one direction, then again as the wave sucked back the other way. I felt like a Geisha girl in a tight kimono, managing only micro-steps or tippy-toes at a time when only a giant step for balance would do. I knew that if someone were to fall, they would likely be trampled to death, as no one near them would be able to create enough space for them to stand up. I found very quickly that by keeping my arms above my head at all times, I was able to push-off the faces, shoulders and breasts of others to control my balance.

By 6 p.m., the crisis had reached a very dangerous level. It was unbelievably hot, there was no respite in the form of a breeze and my nostrils were choked with the stench of pubescent sweat and bad perfume. I had long since lost my friends, who had been alternately sucked into the ebb and flow of the pushing mob. A very petite young girl, about my age, sobbed and screamed in panic as our bodies pressed tightly together (I have seen this same reaction several times since, though strangely, crowds were not an issue); she disappeared with the next crowd thrust. An ugly, angry-looking guy, exhibiting all the brilliance of a night-light, yelled something in my face.

“What?” I yelled back in spontaneously clever reply.

“Quit feeling up my girlfriend, you (unsavory fellow, you)!”

I first looked up at my arms (still extended above my head for balance), then back at him, then down at what was either a partially shaved, soaking wet, marginally clothed Orangutan or his girlfriend (or both). I then managed my second consecutive brilliant comeback in a row:

“Go (occupy) yourself.” He seemed to want a piece of me, for whatever reason, but I was by this time in no mood to be trifled with and also noticed that his arms were pinned to his sides. I took a swing at him and very likely punched his simian girlfriend on the side of the head (as Orangutans are freakishly strong, she clearly posed the greater threat). Before I could cheap shot him (her) again, they were off with the next wave. The rest of the time in “line” was spent this way: like in a Fellini film(I was likely suffering from heat stroke and delirious), new actors would pop into the scene for a few seconds, play their seemingly random roles with emotive frenzy, then shoot off in an explosion of humanity.

Hope was renewed with the opening of the doors, but only for that brief moment, as eight thousand people pushed with renewed fervor to get through eight three-foot openings. I could have cared less about the Rolling Stones at that point; in fact, had Mick Jagger himself been within striking distance, I would have pummeled those lips until they covered his entire ugly face (I’d likely have had to hit him only two or three times). After what seemed an eternity, I shot through the doors like a popped zit. My underwear and pants were on backwards, my shoes on the wrong feet, my nipples strangely pierced. I was twenty pounds lighter, bruised, battered, yet marvelously alive and all the more grateful for it.

I never found my friends again that night until we met back at the car after the show. Each of us had similar horror stories to tell; a couple of them even claimed to have made it to the front of the stage (liars). No matter; I had seen enough of crowds that night, felt as though I’d burned a Koran in an Afghani market square at high noon, and had lost interest in the whole experience. I watched listlessly from the upper deck.

In December of 1979 eleven people were killed at a Who concert in Cincinnati; they had a similar festival seating plan (first come, first served), and the victims were trampled or died of asphyxiation in the frenzy to get the best seats. It wasn’t hard to see how it could happen; I was surprised, frankly, that no one died in Tucson the day the Rolling Stones came to town. It would be unbelievable to imagine that Orangutan Girl might have been hurt the worst (I did hit her pretty good).

You may be wondering how the concert was. I thought it sucked.

Posted in Arizona, Concerts, Humor, Living, Music, Rock and Roll, The Rolling Stones, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 22 Comments

Ten Reasons I May or May Not Belong Among Society’s Elite

Posted on March 19, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

I am not the most confident guy in the world, but at the same time I have to admit to being a little full of myself at times. How does this happen? Relative to the general population, what is there about me that makes me think I’m any better? Well, that’s easy: I realize that most people are idiots, and as we all bob along on the ocean of life, I shine as a brilliant rescue beacon amidst a sea of flickering night lights. But for that select segment of humanity that is at least competent, and perhaps even spectacular, is there anything that affords me a kind comparison? By what definition can I claim to be exceptional? That would depend on the measuring stick: clearly, by height, weight and especially girth, I would easily exceed most of them. My ability to both consume alcohol and maintain composure whilst under its influence would seem to doom almost all of the rest, but by either gauge alone I am unlikely to be allowed entry into the club in the first place (snobs). And yet, somehow I still feel I belong; how strangely askew our perceptions of self tend to be. There are people I know who often brag about themselves and their accomplishments and, frankly, I’m astounded. Are their perceptions of themselves really that warped? Do they actually think they’re that amazing, when it’s clear to the rest of us that as players in this game of life, they’re struggling mightily and unlikely to make even the freshman team? I actually think that most braggarts suffer from low self-esteem and when they boast of their “accomplishments”, they are merely seeking validation. Our failure as friends or associates to shoot them down, laugh in their faces and make light of their obvious shortcomings* are the very things that embolden them and make them think they belong in the “club.” I can assure you that we are doing them no favors by merely sitting idly by and expressing feigned amazement at their ridiculous assertions..

I have given this particular issue what I consider an appropriate amount of thought (literally minutes), and I’m struck with several obvious reasons why it’s fair to consider me one of society’s elite; strangely enough, there seem to be an equal number of arguments to perhaps suggest why I should not be. Amazingly, the total number of arguments, both for and against, add up to…you guessed it: ten. And so, I present you with Ten Reasons I may or May Not Belong Among Society’s Elite:

1) I Can Tell I’m Really Smart. Almost without exception, when I tell friends and associates of my considerable intellect and accomplishments, they seem suitably impressed and often express amazement at my assertions.

2) My Friends and Associates Failed to Shoot Me Down, Laugh in My Face and Make Light of My Obvious Shortcomings (see * above).

3) I Have a Degree From an Accredited University. After six hard years of partying studying, I earned a B.S. (um, hello! – Bachelor of Science) in Finance.

4) I Obtained My Degree From the University of Arizona. At least it wasn’t from ASU, and thankfully I am now capable of explaining my poverty in technologically- complicated terminology and with graphs if necessary.

5) I Own My Own Business. I started, along with a partner, my own business creating and servicing outdoor water features in Arizona in 1994.

6) I Do Not Work Well Under the Direction of Others. As I considered myself in every instance to be either a friend or associate, I felt it was my duty to shoot down my employers, laugh in their faces and make light of their obvious shortcomings (see* above again); I found it hard to maintain employment before starting my own business.

7) My Business is Successful. We have reported a profit in each of our eighteen years in business; given the recent economic climate, this is no small feat.

8) I am Poor. As I understand it, society’s elite tend to to do well financially. As is the American way, my company has remained profitable by screwing its workers, namely my partner and me. A recent labor strike very nearly brought down the company, but did nothing to improve our plight as workers. Management is very tough.

9) My Wife and I Have Raised Three Productive, Engaging and Intelligent Children to Adulthood. My daughter graduated with highest honors and a degree in Nutritional Science; she is to be married in June and will embark on her career later this summer. My son is attending college and has already begun a possible career job with a company that makes solar mirrors. My youngest daughter is beginning college this fall  and is an excellent scholar/athlete. All will be productive, useful citizens who will provide a net benefit to their respective communities; the role of parent can not be overstated as a reason or explanation for this.

10) I Have Deferred Virtually All Important Decisions with Respect to Raising Our Children to My Wife. I allowed my son, at age five, to see the scene in Aliens when the monster pops out of the guy’s chest. In addition, he may have seen Bram Stoker’s Dracula before it was wise to have allowed it. I also ran over his foot with our station wagon when he was six or seven. I admit these things now because, at age twenty-one, Child Protective Services is unlikely to intercede on his behalf.

I suppose the jury is still out, for the time being, as to whether or not I belong in the exclusive club of Society’s Elite. I do feel that intellectually, at the very least, I should be inclooded enkludid included. Having said this, to those of you who have attempted to engage me in meaningful conversation over the years, I apologize for appearing somewhat elusive and perhaps overtly topical and vapid with respect to subject. I also regret using the word “cornucopia” so frequently and seemingly inappropriately (there may have been a very subtle, yet decidedly intellectual reason for having done so).

Posted in Children, Christianity, Family, Humor, Living, Marriage, Parenting, Top Ten Lists, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

My Top Ten Meal Plans for a Healthy Soul

Posted on March 18, 2012 by Thestrugglershandbook

There’s trouble afoot at my house. My wife, always a careful and healthy eater, has eliminated all meat from her diet. She’s an animal lover, almost to the point of fanaticism, and has decided that you can’t claim to truly love them while continuing to eat them. I disagree; I am an animal lover as well (more so before they took over my home), partly because so many of them taste delicious. It’s bad enough that I have to do the hunting (by “hunting” I mean perusing the meat department at the grocery store); now, if I want to enjoy some deliciously seasoned, charred flesh, I have to cook it as well. The extra effort required to sate my meat tooth (I don’t have a sweet tooth) has drastically reduced my protein intake to unprecedented and dangerously low levels. On more than one occasion I’ve found myself on the couch, eyeing a sleeping cat…and then having to change my shirt.

The problem has been compounded by other family members as well. My only child still at home is my youngest, almost eighteen. Always athletic, she’s into P90X (just watching the video makes me sore) and has drastically changed her eating habits as part of the program. My son (and fellow carnivore) moved out late last year and he’s a fitness weirdo himself; I’ve lost my only food ally. Our oldest daughter graduated with a degree in Nutritional Science and I can hear her admonishment in my head whenever I’m considering a questionable dietary choice (she should talk louder). It seems whenever I open my refrigerator nowadays, all I see is green stuff (we really should clean it sometime). I like salad as much as the next guy, but it’s supposed to be a setup for better things to come; at my house, it’s fast becoming the headliner and there’s often nothing else in the offing. To me, food is not only to enrich the body, but to feed the soul as well. While my body will likely benefit from ingesting that which God intended for it, my soul is hurting. Bad. What good is an extra ten years of life (my dad always said “Who cares? It’s the last ten.”) if you’re miserable? Few could argue that happy people tend to live longer or, at the very least, better.

I’ve read a few blogs about food, recipes and meal plans ( Susartandfood is a good one; she writes on any number of topics, then offers a new recipe at the end of every post). I figure if they can do it, so can I. Heck, just by looking at me one can tell I’m no novice when it comes to eating (there’s an air about me). If you agree with me that a happy choice is better than a healthy one, or if you think that’s a ridiculous notion and need some proof of my stupidity, I offer you now My Top Ten Meal Plans for a Healthy Soul:

1) Moons Over My Hammy, Denny’s Restaurant (No, I’m not making any of this stuff myself). Start your day with an arterial assault of scrambled eggs topped with sliced ham, covered in yellow, melted mystery cheese, slapped onto buttered sourdough toast and slathered in a ridiculous name.

courtesy Whataburger.com

2) Double Meat With Cheese, Whataburger. For lunch, distort your profile with two “beef” patties, two slices of processed american cheese, a withered flap of iceberg lettuce, some chopped onions and two Auschwitz-inspired tomato slices between two grease and mustard-saturated buns. The presentation is often lacking (the actual burger looks like the one in the picture fell from a third story window and got run over), but the taste and resultant nap are both unforgettable.

3) Wienerschnitzel,  German delicacy.  No, not the hot dog, dummy; this is a veal or pork cutlet (I prefer pork; what they do to those poor baby cows is abhorrent by any standard) pounded thin, breaded and fried. Squeeze lemon juice on it; unbelievable. The Germans don’t often get food right, but the first Lederhoser who chopped up a pig, beat the cutlet to a near-flattened quarter-inch, threw it into some beaten eggs, rolled it in seasoned breading and dropped it into hot oil was ein genius. Hey, I just provided the recipe; try it sometime.

courtesy kfc.com

4) KFC Extra Crispy, Kentucky Fried Chicken. Unsuspecting poultry decapitated, cut into parts, dunked into a secret, amazing seasoned batter and plopped into a deep fryer. Crunchy and salty on the outside, tender and nearly perfect in every way on the inside (sounds like me), and only 510 calories per breast (doesn’t sound like me). Wait…510…that’s a lot, isn’t it?

5) Roast Beef and Gorgonzola and Potato Cream Cheese Soup, Wildflower Bread Company. Wildflower is one of those pretentious eateries that provide the illusion that eating there is eating healthy. No matter; the illusion is enough for me. The sandwich and soup combined come in at just under 1100 delicious calories. If I were Bill Gates wealthy, I’d have my knaves keep a spa full of this decadent soup at the ready, so I could take a dip every day.

6) Nockerln, German origin. Unbelievably, the Germans have done it again. While there are variations, the version I grew up with are globs of batter containing flour, salt and eggs and dropped into boiling water. These doughy “balls” are then served with heavy pork gravy. Salty, delicious, decidedly unhealthy and quickly expansive when mixed with stomach fluids, they are, apparently, not for everyone: my wife and children don’t care for them. I only get them once a year, when my side of the family meets on Christmas Eve. It truly is “the most wonderful time of the year.”

7) The T-Bone or Ribeye Steak, I Don’t Care Where From. My two favorite cuts of dead cow, slathered in A-1 Steak Sauce, will be part of my last meal should I be convicted of murder, sent to death row and eventually executed or, in any other circumstance, lucky enough to know in advance when my last meal will be.

8) The Breakfast Sampler, IHOP. Finally, now when the waitress asks “Bacon, Ham or Sausage?”, I can answer “Yes.” Add two eggs, two pancakes and hash browns, and that almost painfully distended, yet strangely contented feeling I usually have only at Thanksgiving is virtually assured. Best of all, you can have it any time you want. Breakfast for Dinner is one of my favorites, just behind Dinner for Breakfast.

9) Rex’s Revenge, Beyond Bread. Thick-cut Turkey Breast with Caesar’s dressing on focaccia bread. Only slightly less delicious is the eleven pieces of free bread and butter I eat while waiting to order. Truly one of the few places where I don’t resent and not-so-secretly despise all others in line ahead of me.

10) Chorizo Burrito, Various Local Mexican Eateries. Delicious pig brains, intestines and tripe scraped from the slaughterhouse floor and formed into sausage, fried with potatos and cheese and wrapped inside a large tortilla. I once swerved across two lanes and nearly crossed a median into oncoming traffic because my wrist, covered in red grease from the chorizo burrito I held, slid off the steering wheel. If intestinal issues occur after eating too much of numbers 1-9, this offering is guaranteed to cleanse the system within six to eight hours, often in dramatic and explosive fashion.

My family loves me; I know this because they all try to convince me to eat “better.” They apparently fail to remember that this top ten helped to make me the happy, contented, carefree guy I am today. Take away the food that feeds and nurtures my soul, and lose the lovable husband and father who moseys adorably (and painfully) about the house in t-shirt and boxers each weekend morning, who recognizes that mirrors are to be avoided, as they serve only to foster vanity and self-involvement, and who cleverly sees the folly and potential risk of bending over to pick up anything less than a dollar. Sure, I could be made to join the grazers, but my happiness, and ultimately my health, would suffer for it.

Posted in Children, Christianity, Family, Food, Humor, Living, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments