Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Bubstoke, the Legend of Tarzan

Abandoned at birth, raised in the forest by friendly brown bears who inexplicably didn't devour him, Bubstoke learned the ways of the brown bear.  He earned their trust and their loyalty, and they treated them as one of their own.  He learned and adopted their lifestyle, and he was generally a happy man-bear.  But that was all about to change.

One day while out in the river trout-fishing with his best friend Larry, shots rang out.  Larry went down in a heap, leaving Bubstoke to fend for himself for the first time.  Alone, confused, and scared, Bubstoke ran as fast as he could, but as aforementioned, he was in a river, so it was challenging.  Some animals he would later recognize as "men" came out of the bushes.  They looked at him curiously.  But before he could attack, a much smaller shot rang out, and the men pulled a tranquilized Bubstoke out of the river and into civilization.

Bubstoke had this terrible nightmare.  He dreamt that he was with his buddy Larry, having trout tartare on the riverbank, when...wait a minute.  As he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by men in masks.  He roared his mightiest roar, but the men only smiled and shook their heads.  They did not retreat.  Enraged, Bubstoke showed his claws and prepared to dice them into filets.  But instead of running, the men laughed.  'Why do they scoff at my might?' Bubstoke soliloquized.  'Don't they know I have dingleberries in my fur bigger than them?'

When the laughing subsided, the men tried talking to Bubstoke and asking him questions, but it was no use, since he only spoke brown bear.  Finally, one of the men had a grand idea.  He grabbed a small hand mirror from the counter and showed it to Bubstoke:

And our story begins here...

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Talking to a Brick Bub

Bub’s conversational skills aren’t exactly developing at the rate I had hoped.  His vocabulary is minimal, his grammar weak at best and his intonation?  Don’t even talk to me about intonation.  Nuff said.  Consider Exhibit A, a recent dialogue:

B:  Hey Daddy, I want to put that in my mouth.
J:  No Bub, that’s Daddy’s crossword puzzle.
B:  What’s a crossword puzzle, Daddy?
J:  Shut up, Bub.

This conversation clearly highlights a few deficiencies.  First off, he is obviously completely narcissistic and self-centered.  It’s all about him, his mouth (A), and getting things (B) into it.  I am merely a vessel of transporting B into A.  I tried to confront him about this:

J:  Now how do you think that makes me feel, Bub?  Being your mule.  Your pawn.  Your day laborer.
B:  Um…wait, wait.  Let me think about it.  No, I have no idea.
J:  Angry, Bub.  Unappreciated.  You know what?  Congratulations, this is going in my blog.
B:  What’s a blog, Daddy?
J:  Can it, Bub.

Secondly, there’s not even a remote sense of cognizance of the most basic of social graces.  No pleases, thank-yous, not even a hello.  We discussed, of course:

J:  Bub, I need you to say please and thank you once in a while.
B:  Please and thank you once in a while.
J:  Don’t be a smart-ass, Bub.
B:  What’s a smart-ass, Daddy?
J:  Zip it, Bub.

Thirdly, he’s obviously not very bright.  If look at Exhibit A in detail, you will no doubt recognize that I am obviously holding the crossword puzzle, ergo, he has already seen what it is and yet then he asks what it is.  Oh well, another MENSA bubble burst.  I'm sure it won't be the last.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


This little scuttlebutt is up to no good.  It’s written all over his face.  He’s a miniature Mr. Burns, minus the overbite.  Notice the eyes, wide with the hedonistic knowledge of others’ impending woes.  The hands clasped in absolute diabolicism, fingers oozing sorrows.  Excellent.

There’s only one heartbreakingly stark conclusion to be drawn:  My son is a terrorist.  We have it on solid intel that he has been moonlighting as a single agent for several months now for the world’s tiniest faction, a splinter cell known as…Al-Crya.  

Though we haven’t yet ascertained his overall mission objectives, we can report his general modus operandi based on recent brazen attacks.  Though not overly powerful in his own right, his strategy seems to be based largely on crying and the natural attrition it incurs.  Winning the war on terror one scream at a time.  

There’s no discernible pattern to the attacks.  He has terrorized every hour of the day equally, and I can tell you from first-hand experience, there is a feeling in the air here, a kind of buzz, that this radical new strategy might just be working.

In a recent video on al-Jateara, he told supporters that the Al-Crya takeover was a marathon, not a sprint.  When asked what a marathon was, however, he said simply, ‘Meehhhhh.’

He also made cryptic reference to possessing the ‘keys to the palace,’ though when asked what a palace was, he answered only by defiantly spitting his fikey onto the hardwood.  Chilling imagery indeed.

It’s a hard reality for a parent, birthing and then subsequently harboring a terrorist.  ‘These colors don’t run’ only because they can barely crawl.  We fly our flag at half-guilt.  We celebrate Dependence Day.  But we get by.  Somehow.

But we can tell no one.  He would surely only redouble his efforts and increase the insurgency.  He claims he once cried for 42 hours straight on a dare.  He’s already stated family members are high-profile targets upon visitation.  And in a recent, harrowing announcement, he has threatened that at his next diaper change, he will unleash a veritable wee-had on anyone within a three-foot radius.

Friday, May 6, 2011

3-D Bubtacular

I don’t get 3-D, I really don’t.  Let me clarify.  I understand the concept itself, and how it “enhances” such theatrical barnburners as Jaws 3-D and Captain Eo, but am I completely alone here in thinking that 3-D was not built for the home market?  You can only ever have 4 people watching television at any given time, and they all have to wear those stupid glasses!  

How awkward is that when you walk into your friend’s house to watch the game find four dudes squished on the couch, looking like Corey Haim circa 1989?  ‘Can I get you a beer, man?’  ‘No, I’m good.’  Then walk right back out.  Seriously, this is the worst technology idea they have tried to push on the hapless consumer since Blu-ray.  Or remember that brief HD DVD phase the preceded Blu-ray?   I do.  And it was a dark time.

But 3-D is big now, it’s huge, it’s hot, it’s an overblown excuse to charge three more dollars at the box office.  You ever watch a 3-D movie that was clearly made for the medium in regular ol’ 2-D?  Then there’s always that odd moment where something is supposed to be flying at you and you’re supposed to duck but then you realize your flat-ass TV screen just blocked it. 
They do this on purpose of course.  The Man, I’m talking about.  They figure the more times you see what you’re missing in puny, pathetic 2-D, the more layers of good judgment and rationale start to chip and peel away from your consumer psyche.  

I recently saw Piranha 3-D on DVD and had one of those moments when the vicious little bugaboos tear a man limb from limb, leaving only his, um, unit, suspended inches from my would-be glasses for several seconds until it is chomped down by another beast.  Damnit, it is working.  I did want to see that in 3-D.  I wonder if Best Buy will throw in a free Blu-ray player if I buy one?

You know, technology moves so fast, though.  That’s why I’ve invented 8-D.  It’s pretty simple, brilliant.  You watch a movie, a TV show, whatever, and basically your living room is the center of the action, the stage.  A character enters stage right, they actually enter your living room.  There’s no need for a screen, because you’re sitting in the middle of it, surrounded by the players.  Pretty sweet, right?  Okay, so it's mildly derivative of Total Recall, but when Jim Cameron tries to patent this in ten years, I’ll sue his ass off.  Just sayin.  How else is Bub gonna pay for college?

Anyway, in the spirit of the current 3-D mania, it has been discovered that Bub actually does look better right in your face.  No additional eyewear or surcharges are required.  Enjoy the show.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

The Stupid Question

It can happen on a sunny walk, in the grocery store, or at the doctor's office, but it always seems to come out of left field, a low blow to the SAD (Stay At-home Dad) ego.  There are subtle variations, but they can all pretty much be summed up here:

'Awww...that's so cute.  Giving Mommy the day off work?  Well, I think that's just grand.'

Now, I don't want to go on a rant here, because I don't even know where to start.  Never mind--I'll just start swinging wildly here in my blinding rage and see what connects.

First off, I'll thank you not to talk to me like I'm a Pomeranian.  I'm a man.  A man versus baby.  Learn the difference.  Secondly, how presumptively ignorant are you?  I mean, what year is this, anyway?  Thirdly, there's really not much cute about it.  Try coming over for a day, see how cute that is.  On second thought, you're weird.  Never mind.  Fourthly, I could use a day off myself, thank you very much.  And only I call her Mommy.

So, how do I even go about beginning to think about how to respond to this?  Depends largely on my mood, I suppose, which character I channel to field the question.  A light sampling:

Dice Clay:  Yo, work this.

Paris Hilton:  Like, what's this, like, work thing?

Yogi Berra:  Sometimes a day off is better than a day on, trust me.  And sometimes to get one off, you first have to get on.  But before you can get on, be sure not to get off, 'cause that'll definitely get your day off on the wrong foot.

Drew Peterson:  Mommy took several days off, heh heh.  And they got nothin' on me.

George Carlin:  Well, what exactly is a day off?  Don't mean to cut you off, but you're putting me off, so why don't you take off before I kick off and really start sounding off!  Your efforts to call me off will just piss me off and I'll keep going off until you offer to pay me off with a sum I can live off and you can simply write off, ya jack-off.

Dave Chappelle:  Mehhhhh.