Residents of the Upper Perogie Belt enjoyed a fantastic fake spring this weekend.  Toney hates when I call it “fake,” but I remember early March during years past.  And I know there’s a good chance we’ll have snow up to our crapshafts again, by the middle of next week.

But, man, it was extra-nice on Saturday.  We took Andy (Snoop Manny Mann) to the park, and had an extended walk amongst other folks with the exact same idea.

It was great, but a little strange.  It felt like mid-April outside, yet everything’s still wintered-up and shriveled-down.  The temperature and smell in the air told us flowers should be in bloom, and the grass a-growing.  But it’s still deader than last week’s “ambitious but doable” task list for the weekend.

Andy and his fellow doggie citizens stayed busy text-messaging each other, by slinging urine across everything upright.

“See there?  He’s answering his email,” I explained to Toney and the boys, as our dog let-loose a pulsating jet against the side of a decorative planter.  A middle-aged man and woman walked past as I was providing this lesson, and didn’t appear to fully understand.

One of my favorite things about the First Nice Weekend, is the way people try to will it to be warmer than it really is.  Know what I mean?  They go around in shorts and flip-flops and pretend it’s July — while trying to hide the fact they’re gritting their teeth against the brisk Canadian ice-wind blowing straight up their cooters.

There used to be a similar phenomenon associated with the First Genuinely Warm Weekend.  After the temps edged into the mid-80s for several days in a row, you could count on returning to work and finding several people (usually women in their early 20s) sporting fire engine-red sunburns.  They’d be shuffling around with their arms away from their bodies, like weightlifters, and shrieking in pain every time they encountered a slight breeze or change in temperature.

But that’s pretty much a thing of the past, since we now know that simply walking near a window on a sunny day can kick-off a cancer jamboree.  I kinda miss it… it was part of the changing of seasons, all that cancer-triggering.

And this is, like, one of the worst updates ever.  I can’t get it going, my friends.  I’m struggling, and building massive run-on sentences here.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me…

I’m just going to leave you now with a Question or two, and hopefully you guys can salvage this mess.  I’d like to know how you rank the seasons, from favorite to least favorite.  Here’s how I’d do it:

Fall
Spring
Winter
Summer

I prefer the transition times, over the full-on undiluted dosage.  And I like cold better than hot, so you can probably understand my list.  What about yours?  Use the comments section below.

Also, what are some other sure-fire signs that spring or summer has arrived?  Besides the girls with Monday morning lobster skin?  Let’s start a list, shall we?

And I’ll try this again tomorrow.  Sweet sainted mother of Bugs Meany!

Have a great day.

Now playing in the bunker.

I left work last night around ten o’clock, because I felt like I was about to turn into a diarrhea cannon.  There’s some kind of stomach bug rampaging through that place, and I somehow picked it up.

I prefer not to think about the way it happened… because I suspect it had something to do with airborne poop spores.  Ya know?

A woman who works in my department was out for three days in a row with the thing, and told a co-worker on the phone yesterday that her ass had turned “inside-out.”  This, of course, made me laugh, but in a nervous way.

I came home last night, had a seat in the small room, and went straight to bed.  Toney, thinking I needed my sleep, turned off the alarm, and I ended up clear-cutting timber for a full ten hours.  It’s unheard of.

But I feel better today.  Not 100%, but better.  My gut seems like it’s bubbling and fizzing, but there are no signs of an impending liqui-sprint, which is a big improvement.

Hopefully I just got a small dose of the spores, and it won’t progress to the “inside-out” stage.  ‘Cause I can’t have that.

I took the older Secret to the orthodontist this afternoon.  His appointment was at one o’clock, and I went to the school about a half-hour beforehand, to fetch him.

“Sign him out!” the intimidating woman in the office ordered, while pointing toward a clipboard lying on a nearby desk.  Shit, man… why the hostility?  I picked it up, and scanned the previous entries, by the parents who had come before.

Orthodontist, dentist, doctor, sick…  The reasons were predictable.  I was tempted to shake things up, and enter something a little more interesting.  Like assplosions, lungful of poop spores, or simply “puberty.”

But, you know, I was a little afraid of the woman behind the counter.  She didn’t seem like the type who approves of fun.

The dentist office was complete pandemonium.  Nearly every chair in the sizable waiting room had a person in it.  It was an equal mix of dull-faced parents, and their middle school-aged kids.

I signed him in (out in one place, in at another), and shoehorned my heft between Merlin Olsen and a sixth grade girl.  As soon as I sat down the girl edged a little closer to her mother, which is always flattering.

I looked around at the crowd, and saw a teen girl at ten o’clock, sporting the wrinkled-forehead “I am totally disgusted by everything” expression required from females of a certain vintage.  At eleven o’clock was a boy who should’ve started visiting an orthodontist years earlier.  Radical bucking.

In the corner were three off-brand video games, with customized characters painted on the side — all sporting braces on their teeth. Here’s a bad cell phone picture.  The Pac-Man with a big Hilary Swank overbite is, in my opinion, mildly disturbing.

As I sat and waited for this tooth-straightening factory to get finished with our boy, I started noticing something very subtle, but definitely present.  And here’s a text message I sent Toney at 1:19 this afternoon:

This doctors office is a madhouse. I’m wedged btwn two people, and there’s a faint smell of poop.

Dammit!  You can’t escape it, you can’t avoid the shit mist.  I tried to breathe through my hand, to possibly filter-out the particles, but I don’t know how successful I was.  I also attempted to inhale through my nose holes only, thinking the hairs and whatnot might help.

A man on crutches, and missing the bottom third of his left leg, came in with a boy and sat down in the waiting room.  He knew one of the other parents there, and told her, as if it’s no big deal, that he’s going to have another six inches taken off his leg in the morning.

“They’re going to remove the knee this time…” he said.  “So, what’s going on with you?”  He said it like I might tell someone I’m planning to take in the Camry for an oil change.  Yowza!

As we were leaving (finally) I saw a guy standing in the doorway of an independent record store, a couple doors down.  He looked bored, and a little concerned.

Hey, I tried to support them, I really did.  But they cranked-up their prices to the point of outrageousness, and the cashiers are always snotty and insulting.  So, fuck ’em.  You’ve gotta meet me halfway, bitches.

I asked the Secret if he wanted to get something to eat, since I’d had nothing all day.  “Can we go to Moe’s?” he asked.  And I was hoping he’d say that…

I used to get the Homewrecker burrito, without guacamole.  But I soon realized I was making a tactical error.  The Triple Lindy is exactly the same as the Homewrecker — except it doesn’t come with guac.  And it’s fifty cents cheaper.

You think they’d tell you, but they don’t.  Oh, and I didn’t hear them holler “Welcome to Moe’s!” a single time while we were there.  I think they’ve already scrapped it, and that’s a good thing.

So, there ya go.  This is a late update explaining why the update is so late.  Pretty slick, huh?

I’ll leave you now with two questionable Questions to chew on.  The first is from the Stealing Clive Bull‘s Topics desk.  A few nights ago he asked folks to call-in and tell him what’s banned in their home.  What’s caused you to say, “That’s not welcome in this house!”

Anything?  Nothing comes to my mind.  Oh, we’ve banned the kids from seeing certain movies, because we thought they were too young, and have never let them watch brain-eating crapola like professional wrestling.  But we’re not big on high-horse proclamations, really.

Clive’s callers were mentioning certain newspapers and magazines, TV shows that offended them, etc.  Do you have anything on this?  I don’t have a very good feeling about it…

And finally, I’m getting sick of calling our kids “secrets.”  I mean, seriously.  That shit’s played-out.  But, at the same time, I don’t want to use their real names on the website.

So, if you could help me give them internet names, I’d be much obliged.  Maybe sitcom brothers, or something along those lines?  Like Wally and the Beaver, but not so obvious?

Of course, it doesn’t have to be from TV.  It can be from movies, or books, or music even.  Anything really, I just need to give our younglings their very own internet names.  Help me out, won’t you?

And that’ll close out the week, boys and girls.

I’ll see you on Monday!

Now playing in the bunker.

You know what’s a great feeling? When you’ve been stuck in a traffic jam for a long time, your blood pressure is spiking and crashing, you’ve run through your full arsenal of profanity and are now making up new phrases (like shit bugler and ball flaps) – and everything suddenly busts loose.

The moment when you’ve officially cleared the problem, and can now mash down on the accelerator is pure magic.  It feels like a great pressure has been released from your soul.

And that’s one of the reasons I don’t do drugs (beyond beer).  If I ever found something that approximated that getting-out-of-a-traffic-jam feeling, I’d likely render myself permanently unemployable within six months.

Oh, I know how I am.

Since I made the tentative leap to 2003 a few months ago, and started downloading a small portion of my music, I’ve discovered some real gems – like this slab o’ greatness, for instance.

But I’ve also been burned a few times.  I occasionally let the critics get to me, especially when they engage in a relentless slobber-campaign about some “brilliant” new release.  I’m generally extra-careful, but sometimes get suckered into the vortex of hype.

The new Animal Collective, I’m afraid, might fall into that category.  I’ve only had it a few days, but it’s not doing much for me.  It really isn’t.  It’s all breathy and swirly, and reminds me of a turd-band from long ago:  Cocteau Twins.

Other disappointments from the recent download era include Bon Iver (zzzzz) and Fleet Foxes (make it stop!!).  After giving any of those albums another chance to grow on me, I usually have to race to my stereo and turn on Rocket to Russia, or the first Undertones album, just to get the feeling back in my face.

Cheese and crackers!  I love music, but it’s sometimes very cruel to me.

Sheetz is a chain of convenience stores in these parts.  They’re similar to other such operations, except they sell decent food ‘round the clock.

Oh, you’re not going get a lobster dinner there, or moo goo gai pan.  But if you’re in the market for a freshly-prepared sub sandwich at 3 am, they can hook you up.

In any case, I was in there the other day, using their no-fee ATM (money for nothing), and noticed a sign advertising a full line of Sheetz-themed clothing.  I blinked a few times, and finally decided it was true.  I wasn’t having a stroke, after all.

Who in the hell would buy a hoodie emblazoned with the logo of a grocery store, or a gas station, or whatever that place happens to be?

And check this out.  The whole thing makes me laugh.

What’s next, a line of Sleepy’s Mattress Center windbreakers?  Radio Shack lapel pins?  Leather jackets in celebration of Del Monte corn?

I sincerely don’t understand.

Surf Reporter Dorothy sends along this amazing photo…  It was reportedly snapped by her daughter, somewhere in Arkansas.  Yum!  Chili, burritos, and the insinuation of a severe intestinal tract infection!!

And finally, the Question of the Day…  Last week I was at Waffle House, and my check was $7.34.  I gave the cashier a ten, and she handed me $12.66 in change.

Years ago, when I was a poor young hooligan, I would’ve pocketed it, thanked her, and kept moving.  But nowadays I’m much more honest in such situations.  I always think about the employee, and how it’ll surely come back to them in some unpleasant way.

So, I returned the ten to the woman, and told her she’d given me too much change.  She seemed surprised by my honesty, and thanked me several times.

How do you handle that sort of thing?  Do you just say screw ’em, like the 1988 Jeff?  Or do you give the money back?

I’d also like to hear your stories about finding money, or other things of value, and whether or not you tried to locate the person who lost it.

What’s the highest amount of money you’ve ever found?  I once happened upon a ten and two singles all folded up on the floor of a store in Greensboro, and believe that’s my current record.  What about you?

Use the comments section to tell us about your most impressive ground scores, and I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Have a great day!

Now playing in the bunker.

It pains me to admit it, but our dog Andy is a bunnist.  It’s true.  He has a deep-seated hatred of bunnies, based on nothing but species, and regularly discriminates against them while out for his urine-slinging sessions.

Over the years that hound has been responsible for any number of hate crimes perpetrated against the bunny community.  And it’s nothing short of heartbreaking…  There haven’t been any murders, thank God.  But I fear it’s more a result of incompetence on his part, than any sense of mercy.

He sometimes harasses the local squirrel population, as well.  And after I scold him, and make a plea for tolerance, he just shoots me a look that says, “What do you call 1200 squirrels and bunnies at the bottom of the ocean?  A good start!”

Andy’s now coming up on eight years old, and I fear there’s no changing him.  No amount of sensitivity training, I believe, will eliminate the dark, dark shadows of bunnism in his soul.

I am so terribly ashamed.

Anyway… I’ve been paying close attention, and rarely a day goes by when Toney and/or I don’t make a reference to Seinfeld or Curb Your Enthusiasm.  Things happen continuously, that remind us of situations on those shows.

I used to make a lot of Andy Griffith references, and when I was an ugly teenager I cranked off Monty Python quotes with abandon (which now horrifies me).  But for the past ten years or so, it’s been all Larry David, all the time.  Because, I suppose, he’s a straight-up genius.

Sunshine, on the other hand, still ties everything to Saturday Night Live somehow – the original cast! – and it makes my whole body go rigid.  Cheeseburga cheeseburga?? What is that, from like fifty years ago?  How about an update to M*A*S*H, at least?

And that’s my concern…  At what point will I become Sunshine, making everyone shake their heads in disgust at my ancient-ass quoting?

What should be the statute of limitations on something like that?  Ten years?  Fifteen at the outside?  What do you think?

And who makes the moldiest references, of anyone you know?

I used to work with a guy who regularly cranked-off drug “jokes” dating from his early 1970s misspent youth.  Whenever he’d happen upon the number 714, for instance, he’d get all animated and start hollering, “714! 714!!”

I still don’t know what he was talking about, and don’t care.  Because that dude was Douchey Douchington the high mayor of Douchetown…

And I’m sure we’ve covered this one before, but it’s been a long time.  A few days ago I was chatting with a (purposely ambiguous) person, and he said “prostrate” trouble runs in his family.

I wanted to ask if he comes from a long line of people who suddenly lie face down and fully extended, but decided to just keep my mouth shut… and later make fun of him on the internet.

So, what words do you notice people getting slightly wrong?  Not whole phrases like “I could care less,” but single words that folks manage to mangle and mutilate.

I have a few more, off the top of my head:  punkin, pitcher (instead of picture), Oregone, samwitch, Oldtimer’s disease, libary, supposably, and I could go on and on.

I know a person who, upon leaving a roomful of people, sometimes waves and tries to say adios! But she always pronounces it, hidy-hoase!

And Toney and I worked with a woman in Atlanta who transposed letters when she spoke.  Not when she typed, interestingly enough, just when she was speaking.

She once told us she’d bought a new couch at the flea market(!), and kept insisting it was brand new from the manufacturer.  “It still had the plascit on it!” she shouted.  And we almost stroked-out, trying not to laugh.

So, there ya go.  I know this one is a tad abbreviated, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.  You can’t go around questioning the update gods…

Have a great day, my friends.

I’ll see ya tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

Our youngest son was playing in a youth basketball league recently, and the coach called a time-out during the third quarter.  He pulled all the players together in a huddle, and reportedly yelled, “What’s wrong with you guys today?!  You’re playing like a bunch of crippled girls!”

After the team came back to win, in an exciting down-to-the-wire finish, he told them it was because of his “crippled girl speech.”  That’s what he called it, and apparently fancies himself a modern-day Lombardi now.

Next time I see him, at Rite-Aid or Bennigan’s, he’ll probably be sporting a full trench coat and hat.

But here’s how it’ll play itself out…  I’ve seen this kind of thing before.  Next year, still jacked-up on success, he’ll be the first parent to volunteer, and will, at some point during the season, feel compelled to break out his inspirational sermon again.

Only this time he’ll probably take it up another notch (I know human nature), and replace “crippled girls” with “big retarded babies” or “passel o’ water-heads,” or something along those lines.  And a parent will hear about it – a parent who doesn’t share my, um, sensibilities – and the whole world will come crashing down on the poor bastard.

Yeah, I could warn him about it.  But where would be the fun in that?

At a previous basketball game, the same coach was trying to get his team whipped into a frenzy, and instructed the kids on the bench to “make some noise.”

The younger Secret was sitting out that quarter, and loves to “make some noise,” as do most fourth graders.  Man, the volume was amazing.  The shrillness… the piercing tones… the insanity…  I wanted to ask the coach, “Why?  Why in God’s name??”

It was almost impossible to hear any individual kid and figure out what they were hollering, but I zeroed in on our son and tried my best.  And I thought I could hear/lip-read him saying the words “Cheap Trick.”

The hell?

After the game, I asked what he was yelling, and he said, “Thank you, Tokyo!  Cheap Trick says goodnight!!”  I’m not really sure what I think about that, but for some reason it makes me proud.

I have a cousin who is a truck driver (needless to say), and he recently “lost an engine” on the road.  Since the repair job promised to be lengthy and involved, he took a Greyhound bus home.

And when they stopped somewhere, he says there was a male nurse (or somesuch) pushing an enormous woman in a wheelchair, both waiting to board the bus.  My cousin got off to buy a Coke, and overheard the following conversation between some random man, and the person pushing the chair.

Random:  Boy, that’s a lot of wheelchair.
Pusher:  Well, it’s a lot of woman.  The chair weighs 800 pounds, and she’s almost 600 herself.

Sweet Maria!

When my cousin got back from the vending machines, they had the wheelchair, along with its ample cargo, situated on a hydraulic lift.  They were trying to get her onto the bus, but he said the motor was laboring a great deal.

Finally, he reports, something gave-out, there was a loud hissing sound, and the platform collapsed.  And when she hit the ground, the chair bounced from its clamps, and it and the woman went rolling over an embankment.

Can that possibly be true?  I have my doubts.  It reminds me of the stories I used to hear when I worked at a convenience store in West Virginia.  You know:  super-exaggerated boolshit.

But it made me laugh, nonetheless.

Surf Reporter Todd sent me a link to this YouTube clip, that had me howling.  Man, that’s good stuff.  Because it’s true, so very true.

And there’s been coverage, over the past few days, about how evil Americans are ruining the Earth, once again, with their decadent ways.  This time, through the use of fancy-pants toilet paper…  Here’s but one news article; there were plenty of others.

Also, a few of you sent me this related link, to a site where it’s possible to purchase reusable shitrags.  Can you imagine?  I cannot.  Blecch.

In any case, it leads us to the Question of the Day… Have you ever wiped with anything other than toilet paper?  How’s that for a discussion subject, hmmm?

For the record, I don’t think I have.  In England I was forced to use something the consistency of copier paper, but it was on a roll and still technically TP.  I’ve never found myself in a situation where I had to wipe with a sock, or a handful of leaves, or a river current, or the spinning wheel of an exercise bike.

What about you?  Tell us about it, won’t you?  Or any butt-wiping tales, for that matter….  And while we’re at it, if you have anything on wheelchair mayhem, that would be fantastic, as well.

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.