My Super Bowl Recap 2014

If you are a Peyton Manning fan, then that Super Bowl was not for you.

If you are a funny commercial fan, then that Super Bowl was not for you.

If you are a Phillip Seymore Hoffman fan, then that Sunday was not for you (along with some of the writing that follows here).

So I was with my family watching the Broncos completely fall apart.  But at least the commercials were amusing—not so much.  In years passed, I typically update my Facebook status while watching the Super Bowl and its commercials.  This year was no different.  This morning, when I reviewed my posted statuses, I noticed that not a single one singled out the “funny” commercials.

Without further ado, here is a Super Bowl recap via my Facebook status updates:

Wait a minute.  I still have a little “ado” left.  I had to look up the word “ado” to make sure I was using it properly.  Ado is defined as “bustling activity; fuss; bother; delay”.  So yes, all is well.  I now have no more “ado” so we can, in fact, continue.

The morning of Super Bowl Sunday brought us the news of the death of a Hollywood actor.

‘If you are waiting for Philip Seymour Hoffman to come to your Super Bowl party, umm, well this is awkward…’

I posted that because Mr. Hoffman apparently accidentally killed himself with drugs.  Perhaps this was insensitive to his surviving loved ones.  It probably was.  But really, I was just trying to look out for those Super-Bowl-partying people who were counting on him to bring his crock-pot filled with that awesome chicken-cheese dip that he was known for.  I mean, those poor people.  How dry their mouths must have been after eating dipless chips.

Besides, his loved loves don’t read my blog.  If they do, they never bother to push like or leave a comment.  So, whatever.

The game was kicked off by Phil Sims escorting Joe Namath to the coin flip to determine who would be declared the winner of the Super Bowl.  Seriously, using the coin flip to determine the winner would have been far less painful for the broncos.

‘”Phil, I want to kiss you.”, Joe.’

If you don’t understand this reference, just Google “Joe Namath I want to kiss you” and you will no doubt find a clip of a drunken Mr. Namath hitting on a sideline reporter while being interviewed on national television.  Priceless.  I’ll never be able to see Joe without recalling that video segment with sharp clarity in my head.  Completely more entertaining than Sherman’s rant.

The Super Bowl half time show was being advertised weeks in advance to showcase Bruno Mars and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“Get ready for the oil and water half time show.”

Can this arrangement be anymore mismatched?  I couldn’t wait…

“Bruno is moving more than Denver’s offense.”

I have to say, Mr. Mars opened with an entertaining number that was enjoyable.  He banged on the drums for awhile and then welcomed the members of Sha-Na-Na onto stage.  They all sung and danced.  It was pleasant.

If you understand the Sha-Na-Na reference, you are old.  To be honest I thought they were all dead by now.  Although, I didn’t see Bowser anywhere?

And then the Red Hot Chili Peppers dropped in on the scene.  I like the Chili Pepper’s music, but trying to mix them in with Bruno’s class and style—not possible.

“I just ate a mars bar with a red hot chili pepper.  It was gross.”

Once again, I’ll note that the commercials this year were basically all forgettable.  Apparently Prince (the old pop star of the 1930’s) was guest starring on some sitcom that I don’t watch.  Many plugs for this comedy show were paid for—each highlighting Prince’s non-balding big hair.  Rogaine has treated him well.

“My 15 year old son just asked, “Who is Prince?”

So now I’m feeling old.  Apparently the sitcom show is not geared toward the 15 year old high school student demographic.

So the Super Bowl game was a one-sided flop with Peyton Manning’s offense struggling to get anything done.  So I signed off of my Facebook time line with one last parting shot.

“Phillip Seymore Hoffman is having a better day than Peyton Manning.  Just saying.”

Note: If you add, “Just saying.”  It can’t be considered inconsiderate.

Buy my book (very popular with the 15 year old high school students).

Roid Rage

I recently went though surgery.  It was a personal issue that needed to be taken care of for more than a decade.  I finally decided to bite the bullet and make it happen.  I found it hard to talk about because of its personal nature.  But prior to the day of the surgery I needed to tell certain people that it was going to happen, for example, my work place needed to know for scheduling purposes—the recovery time for this particular operation is a full two weeks.

I just couldn’t do it.  I went with the “it’s personal” approach when pressed for details.  In hindsight, this approach only leaves people asking more questions.  “Is it an outpatient thing or will you be hospitalized?”  “Are you going to die?”

So enough already!  Here it goes:  I have had hemorrhoids for years.  And this year was my breaking point.  I’m having them removed!  Want to see the pictures?  Suddenly I have a strange desire for a bowl of grapes.

At the time of this writing, I’m only twenty-four hours into my recovery phase.  Let me tell you, this sucks.  So I humbly ask that if you want to, please, pray for my ass.  Literally.

Although going public with my situation may cause me to be the butt of some jokes (yeah, I went there before you could), I felt that at this point I needed to share the humor that I heard from the voices in my head.

I got a referral to a qualified butt doctor—that is exactly the wording is on their diplomas.  And as it turns out, the doctor I selected is a female doctor.  Immediately I thought, “Oh no!  This is going to be so awkward.”  However, if the doctor was a male doctor, I would have been thinking, “Oh no!  This is going to be so awkward.”  So I made the appointment and entered it into my calendar with the title of “Appointment with Dr. Rear.”

My initial appointment rolled around so that Dr. Rear can determine how exactly how the operation will proceed.  There is only one way that this exam is done—physically.  So Dr. Rear and her much younger female medical student (more awkwardness) begin by explaining how this exam will proceed: dropping my pants, leaning over the table, a rubber glove examination, and finally an “instrument probing” which is sitting on the tray against the wall—the instrument kind of looks like an intercontinental ballistic missile.  Oh boy.

And they’re off!  The finger part of the exam came and went rather quickly but somehow Dr. Rear managed to say “just relax” about three dozen times in the thirty seconds or so that it took.  Relax?  I don’t think so.

Next, the rocket that was placed “up there” was far larger than Dr. Rear’s little female fingers.  Enough said.  It was at this point that Dr. Rear said, “Hmm. I’m going to have to switch instruments and use one that has a light on it.”

In recounting this story for my wife, she said, “Did Dr. Rear not know that it was going to be dark up there?  Where exactly did she graduate from?”

So I completed the exam and scheduled both the pre-op doctor appointment and the actual surgery.  The pre-op appointment was with my regular doctor.  Basically the pre-op appointment is to certify that I am in good health and can survive a surgery.  So the doctor’s assistant (another young female—yet more awkwardness) is taking my temperature and reading my blood pressure and filling out forms.  The pre-op certification form begins with “What type of surgery?”  So she asks me just that and I respond with, “Hemorrhoids”.   She quickly looks down and says rather sheepishly, “ok”.  I then asked my own question, “You want to talk about the details?”  She said no and quickly moved on to the other more generic questions: heart issues, diabetic, allergies to medications, etc.  And then for no reason that I could comprehend even now, she threw out this question: “So you are having the hemorrhoids removed?”

I responded with, “No.  Surgical augmentation.  I want them to be larger and more pronounced.”  She turned red and moved on.

The day of the surgery rolls around and I’m being prepped for surgery.  Dr. Rear comes in to greet me and my wife and gives us a warm reassurance that everything should go smoothly.  She also introduces her up-and-coming medical student that will be “shadowing” her for the “observation experience” with my consent and permission.  It’s another young female medical student.  Go figure.  I shook her hand and said, “Sure.  It should be a great show.”

Following the administration of my knock-out drugs I remember absolutely nothing.  Which is exactly what I wanted.  I crawled up onto the operating table and regained memories starting in the recovery room.  Perfect.

In the recovery room I had the oddest bout of uncontrollable sobbing and tears.  It was so weird because I even said out loud that I didn’t know why I was crying.  The nurse explained that she sees all sorts of different reactions to the drugs used during operations.  I asked if someone was telling me sad stories while in the operating room.  She said, “No, but I did show you my paycheck and you have been crying ever since.”

Well that’s my story and now I’m on the road to complete recovery.  Hemorrhoids aren’t that embarrassing, are they?  It’s not like I did something to cause them.

I’m not sure how to wrap this blog entry up.  I guess the next time you see me, you can buy me an Angel Food Cake so that I can sit down comfortably.  It’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

cake

Buy my books which have absolutely nothing to do with hemorrhoids.

Christmas Carols — Again

I got a friendly request to repost my take on Christmas carols.  It was an entry that I posted last year.  And although this person could have used the history or even the search option, I thought I would take it easy on them and just put the link up all fresh like.

Enjoy…

Christmas Carols

Maturity for Sale

I like being witty, being that funny guy, and getting people to laugh.  I really enjoy making people smile.  My teenage children recently asked me if I will ever mature into an adult.  “Come on Dad, are you ever going to grow up?  Are you sure you’re even an adult?”  I took it is a complement, but I could be wrong.  They would be totally bummed out if my humor dried up just because I turned into a mature grown man.

The scenario was still on my mind as I was on my way home from work.  I have just under an hour drive to place of employment.  I was buzzing down the highway watching the exits fly; my mind contemplating deep thoughts about what needs to happen to become a mature responsible adult.  And that is when I saw it.

I saw the sign.

I saw what I needed to do.

There was hope for me.

There was a place for me to go to increase my maturity and hang on to my sense of humor at the same time.

Did you know that there is a business that sells items designed to increase your maturity level?  I didn’t.  I was amazed at what I had found.  I stumbled across this little place that I was completely confident that it would change my world.

The owners of this place weren’t being too creative when they selected their name for this extraordinarily helpful little road side shop.  They called their store simply “Adult”.

Yes, it was the perfect store for me and my new desire to become a grownup.  A place where I can purchase products that will increase my maturity.  I pulled my car up to the door.  Already I can feel an excitement in the pit of my stomach.  Is this what mature people feel all the time?  I have to be careful here.  If my goal is to enhance my maturity while maintaining my sense of humor, I must proceed with caution and not to buy too much “Adult” product at one time.

Well I threw the car into park and charged into the shop.  I was a little surprised at what I saw.  I meandered up and down the aisles checking out the items for sale that would help change me into a mature adult.  I really couldn’t understand how these products were going to help me become a more serious adult, but this was an “Adult” store.  So clearly, they know what they are doing here.  I kept an open mind and continue to browse.

So, you want me to put this in where?  I really don’t think that will help my goals.  Are you sure?

I didn’t try that approach.  Instead I looked into their self-help DVDs.

Their self-help DVDs really took a strange approach.  Sure, the people in these videos had an interesting grasp on “self help”, but the methodology just didn’t seem like a match for my objective.

I left the so-called “Adult” store without finding what I needed, disappointed, and confused.  I went in looking for a new level of maturity, a new sense of wisdom, and I exited the store with nothing that would help.

But you should see my new wardrobe.

Buy my mature books.

On Being Dental Floss

When I count my blessings, I never forget to note that I am not a piece of dental floss.  There are a tremendous amount of “things” in this world.  I could have been any of them.  Fortunately, I became a human—master of the floss.

Can you imagine being a piece of dental floss?

First, the most obvious point, is that it would be gross to live out your existence with the sole purpose of  removing un-swallowed bits of nearly completely chewed food from in-between the cramped quarters of a couple of teeth.  However, since that is the only purpose for your existence, maybe that’s what would bring you the most joy.  You would have an amazing sense of accomplishment as you pull off the “flick the food bit onto the bathroom mirror” move.  You would be praised by generations of dental flosses to come.  Songs would be written.  Stories would be exaggerated.

“Your great-great-grandfather once catapulted a piece of corn on the cob so far and so high onto the bathroom mirror, that the human being controlling the string of your floss ancestors had to get the bathroom stool to reach the once stuck food crud.”

So the other reason why I’m grateful that I am not dental floss is that there is little possibility of being the hero or of even being productive.  Only a very small percentage of pieces of dental floss actually get to journey in-between the teeth to do the job of food extraction.  The rest of the floss pieces either get wrapped around the human’s finger or stuck out in never-never land between the finger and the ever-so-lucky piece of dental floss that gets jammed into the tooth crack.

“I was so close!  I was right next to the floss piece that reached into the abyss and pulled the popcorn kernel out.  I saw everything from the front row.  I was right there.  It should have been me.  I could have been a contender.  Instead of a bum, which is what I am.”  Said a piece of floss named Marlon.

“Dude, relax.  At least you were there.  I was wrapped around a finger, crushed up against other loser pieces of floss that didn’t even stand a chance of contributing.  And besides, the ever-so-great food flicker ended up in the same trash can as the rest of us.”

Oh, and I’m thankful that I am not toilet paper too.

Buy my books (no strings attached).

Seasonal Monsters

Here comes Halloween!  My favorite holiday!

Every year I set up a haunted front yard.  And every year it gets more elaborate.  My boys participate with their scary masks and blood stained shirts.  We take pride in making the little ones scream.  I warn all the parents that bring their children into my yard, “if you enter, your child probably will have nightmares.”  Several years back, my boys were happy to tell everyone they saw the next day that “we made an adorable little Scooby Doo cry!”  Ah, good times, good memories.

scary

My monsters in my haunted yard.

I got to thinking about some of the various monsters of Halloween.  You have your werewolves, demons, vampires, and mummies.  What makes these monsters scary?

Glad you asked.  You did ask that, right?

Werewolves:  They are basically overgrown dogs that will eat your flesh.  Sure, scary.

Demons:  Supernatural craziness.  They go through walls and from time to time they will put your body on pause and cause black smoke to come out of your wide open mouth.  It’s kind of a coalminer’s black lung thing without the years of mining.  (Maybe that was aliens, not demons.  Whatever.)

Black smoke is about to come out of my mouth and perhaps a nasty nose bleed.

Black smoke is about to come out of my mouth and perhaps a nasty nose bleed.

Vampires:  They suck your blood and turn you into one of their kind—which apparently leads to immortality.  That’s not really scary unless you get a really hungry vampire that drinks 100% of your blood.  Momma vampire barks out, “Listen here you little blood sucker.  You’re not leaving the table until you finish all the blood from your human!  There are vampires in this world that only get to suck blood from the necks of small animals—some of which don’t even have necks.  You should be grateful for your full human dinner!”

Mummies:  Seriously, what is scary about a mummy?  Even the way you spell the plural form of mummy makes it look cute with that “drop the Y and add I E S” thing.  “Ah, look at all the little mummies!  So adorable!”  So, mummies are long dead people wrapped up in several layers of toilet paper.  Yeah, not scary.  “Oh no!  Look out!  That mummy is wrapped in un-quilted single ply toilet paper!  Run for your life!”  He isn’t going to bite you without first choking on a wad of toilet paper.  I suppose that it might be scary if they all banded together, stormed your neighborhood, and toilet-papered every tree, top to bottom, on your street.  What a nightmare that would be!  Oh, worse if it was drizzling outside.

Buy my horror novel (wrap it in toilet paper)*
*must supply your own toilet paper

Summer Poetry

I have never really tried my hand at poetry, but I couldn’t shake these words ringing in my head.  Although I am feeling a little hesitant and vulnerable, I thought I would just put myself “out there” in order to allow you to continue to hear the voices in my head—even when they are shouting from the less masculine side of my nature.

With the end of Summer break upon us, I’ve recently reflected upon the last handful of months.  My boys are back in school—one of which is starting his high school career.  When did I become the father of a freshman student?  Crazy.  So here goes (I’m a little nervous), a completely original poem written solely by myself which I will simply title:

Summer of 2013

Welcome to the new age, to the new age
oh, oh, oh, I’m radioactive.

I’m gonna take a good girl
I know you want it
You’re far from plastic
I hate these blurred lines

I’m up all night to get some
She’s up all night for good fun
I’m up all night to get lucky

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow

You make me wanna roll my windows down
…and cruise

I know you want it

This poem, my one hundred percent original poem, simply wrote itself.  I was just hanging out this summer, listening to the radio, and the words just came to me.  That doesn’t normally happen, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Unrelated to the poem composed above, these other words came to me too:  Copyright infringement, Florida Georgia Line, Cruise, Imagine Dragons, Radioactive, Daft Punk, Get Lucky, Robin Thicke, Blurred Lines.  Although these words don’t seem to flow as nice as my completely original poem, I thought I would include them here anyway.  I’m not exactly sure why I feel compelled to do so, but my gut feeling says that it may be for the best.

There once was a book from me.
Who’s contents were filled with glee.

…never mind.  I think my poetry career ended before it began.