Why You Should all Come to my House in the Event of a Zombie Apocalypse (Unless you're a Zombie - then stay away)

I've been thinking a lot recently about the zombie apocalypse.  I don't know why, but I've had zombie related dreams three out of the past four nights.  Perhaps it has something to with a habit I've developed of playing zombie related flash games as I'm getting ready to go to sleep?  Nah.

For example, last night I had this insane dream where our first babysitter (who in retrospect sort of looked like a dawn of the dead zombie) was all crazy obsessed with Sammy, but not in a good way, like "I want him forever" kind of way.  And when we told her she couldn't work with us anymore, we were at this playground with a bathroom stall.  She got all sad and circled around the playground, entered the bathroom stall, and came out.  She went around again, and entered the stall, but this time, when she came out, there were two instances of her.  Like the stall was some evil version of Calvin's Duplicator from "Scientific Progress Goes 'Boink'".  And in like, three minutes, there were fifty of her, all zombie-like and crazy.  Then, I woke up from my dream and realized the power went out in the house.  I looked out the window to see if other houses had their power off, and it was storming.  The zombie babysitter was standing in the middle of our backyard pointing at me.

Yeah, it was like this.

Then I woke up again to the alarm clock.  I wasn't sure if this was reality yet, so I waited (please note: I said "waited", not "hid") about ten minutes before wrenching myself out of bed to go shower, aka walk down the dark hallway to the REALLY dark part of the house.

Moral of the story?  Always add an ethicator to perfect your duplicator.

Ok, moving on.  I'll sit at nighttime sometimes thinking about the defensive characteristics of our house, and where I would create a defensive position if the country were to plunge into chaos.  The great thing about our house is that there are a few key bottlenecks inside the house with hugely advantageous spots for ambushes.  The stairs lead up to one end of a very long hallway, which allows for a machine gun nest to be installed at the end of that hallway.  This position affords that nest the benefit of also overlooking the front of the house, from which vantage provides ample opportunity for elevated sniping.  In addition, our house is on the top of a hill, which is a natural defense against attacks. 

This picture was taken at the end of my upstairs hallway.

The only problem?  No shotguns.  No sniper rifles.  No assault rifles or Bazookas.  We don't even have a handgun.  I think the most dangerous projectile in our house (besides Sammy's infrequent projectile vomit) is a set of darts.  However, we do have an unnecessarily sharp gardening tool that I've taught myself how to throw like a knife and a super sweet hatchet. 

And while I might sleep with only a small fixed-blade knife by my bedside, I still sometimes get excited about those creaks and groans of a settling house.  I get excited because I might finally get the chance to execute my fool-proof house-defense plan.

But this is where you come in.  My wife is against guns.  I have no idea why, but I imagine it's due to her aversion to being awesome.  So, if you could, please write in the comments about how important it is for a husband to have Rambo levels of armaments inside the home.  I'm talking mini-guns, an uzi, an F-14, and perhaps an M-1 Abrams or two.  If you do, I'll let you come hunker down with us during the apocalypse. 

Cigars, too.  We need cigars.

ATTENTION: WORLD

I normally don't follow celebrities.  I think it's a giant waste of time worrying about people you'll never meet, or will never have an effect on your life.

BUT THIS IS DIFFERENT.  Why?  Because it shows a couple very important things that I've been pounding the table about for as long as I had fists.

So, what's the impetus for all this fluff'n stuff?  Justin Bieber has finally admitted the obvious: he wears women's pants.

"They're comfortable," he said. "I like the way that they feel around my ankles when I sit down to pee," he continued.  Ok, I'll admit he only said the first thing. But he was thinking the second thing.

What's wrong with this is that there is a giant shift in what's sexy these days, and I'm not happy about it.  It used to be that guys like this were swooned over.

Arnold ripped this tree out of the ground.  Chainsaws are for wusses.

This dude, while a bit of a tool, is definitely hoss.

May as well be "Huge Jacked-up-man"

I know some people will be like, wait, what about Ryan Reynolds?  Chicks dig him, right?

His face says, "I like dudes" but his body says, "Shut up, face"

He doesn't count.  He married Scarlett Johansson and couldn't make it work.  You lose, buddy.

Moving on, I'm finding that it's guys like this who are becoming much more mainstream for women to swoon over.

Yes, this is a guy.  Google Bill Kaulitz, but be prepared to cry first.

This dude, Bieber, the super skinny and pale dude from twilight, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, even Usher and JT.  All dudes that shop in the women's section.  Though JT is pretty awesome and can do pretty much whatever he wants.  I'm ok with JT.

Ok, I get the whole, "I want to look androgynous and woman-y to either make a statement, or be weird" thing that celebrities often do.  Boy George.  David Bowie.  Ernest Hemingway.  But seriously, does this sort of thing appeal to women?

I was always of the opinion that while, yes, we live in a time when physical prowess means little in the way of being able to protect your loved ones from the random attacking puma/ocelot, women still enjoy feeling that a man could protect her in some situation of hypothetical grave danger.  It's sexist, yes, I confess.  But when there's a saber-tooth tiger chasing you, you likely want a guy who will wrestle that stupid cat down and wear its teeth as a hat.  Something like what 50 cent would do.

Bullet holes?  Or Saber tooth tiger tusk puncture wounds?  You decide.

And while I'm married, and no longer in the market for super hot chicks (I got mine already), this shift of the male physique definitely still has an effect on my daily life.

For example, when I was much younger, I did some next-level bodybuilding.  Thus, I've still got the same frame, though without the same level of physique.  So when I walk into any store with cool clothes, say - H&M for example (but it really is just about every other store), I will try on a shirt. I'll pick up a large, because, well, I'm a big dude.  When I put a large shirt on, I expect it to either fit perfectly, or be too effing big.

Not at H&M.  Whenever I'm there trying to put on an extra-super large shirt, I feel like I'm this guy:



LARGE SHIRTS BARELY FIT ME.  They apparently cut the shirts super tight in the chest and arms so big dudes like me can't wear anything but trash bag clothes.

This is why  I'm opening up a store for real men.  And I'm calling it H,B&M "Hoss Badass Mothafuckas".  And there will be an entrance requirement.  You can't come in unless you can bench your own weight.  And the store will be filled with shirts that have regularly sized arm holes.  And other things, like a steak bar.  It's like a salad bar, but only with steak.  And a lion will guard the register - you have to get past the lion to checkout.  Also? Complimentary protein shakes.  I'll also have to work in arm-wrestling somewhere in there too.

What do you think?  Viable business model?  Whatever, I'll "crush" the competition.  Sorry, I'm even a little embarrassed about that terrible joke.

So anyway, what does "sexy" mean anymore?  Is it about primal subconscious concerns about protection, like in the cases of the big dudes above?  Is it about beauty and sensitivity, like in the cases of the woman-y men previously mentioned?  Or is it about something completely different?  like, say, intelligence or personality?

HAHA - ok, now that we've gotten that joke out there, we can all agree it's not about either of those.

4th of July Weekend on the W00t scale!!

Two of you are Superfluous.  Even if you are "little".

Hellz yeah!  Guess what today is!  Yeah, ok - it's Friday, Rebecca Black, we know.  But it's also the day before a long weekend.  4th of July!  Which leads me to reincarnate the w00t scale in order to scientifically denote just how awesome this weekend will be.  Seriously, if I had a ninja for every time I thought about how awesome this weekend is going to be, well, I'd have too many ninjas, because one is all you need.  (if there are any terrorists reading this, forget I said that).

So, tonight, we're doing some sweet Mediterranean food.  This is like, +6 w00ts, because I have a serious addiction to hummus.  Actually, on a related note, did you know that hummus makes you gassy?  I didn't.  That is, until I had a whole plate of it to myself at a restaurant and then we went to the movies.  It was crowded in the movies, which was nice, cause no one could pin it on me.  +1 more w00t just for that. 

Apparently, Godzilla hasn't listened to Towelie's sage advice

Then tomorrow, we're forming a Sahara desert style caravan of around 3560 people and making the long journey down to the Jersey Shore for some fist pumping action.  -3 w00ts because fist pumping for us is a euphemism for changing diapers. But then again, +1 w00t because the Grenade Free Foundation is also a euphemism for no poop blowouts.  Also, this will be Sammy's first time at the ocean, and I'm super excited to make a sweet sand castle and put him in the middle of it and pretend that he's Godzilla while making him destroy said sand castle.  +1 w00t!

Then, we're gonna truck it back on home for a sweet steak grilling extravaganza, because nothing says "Goddamn it, I love freedom" than eating steak off the grill.  Unless we were to eat it without forks and knives.  Or hands.  We just picked up $40 worth of t-bones.  I'm thinking we cook them, but "forget" to invite people over.  +1 w00t for selfishness!  Wait, it's not really selfishness if it comes to food.  It's really more wise survival skills.  -4 w00ts for rationalizing greed.

Ok, so far that's +3 w00ts, which means this weekend will be pretty sweet and rockin'.

So, I'm going over my adolescent boy checklist to make sure I got everything. 

• Fart joke, check. 
• Godzilla reference, check. 
• Ninja picture, check.  
• Stoner reference, check. 
• Jersey Shore reference, double check.

Ok, I think I've covered all of my bases. Enjoy the weekend, and be an American! Punch a terrorist!

Stream of Consciousness day!

I have nothing of substance prepared for today, so you'll have to deal with THIS: stream of consciousness in celebration of "I love impossible to read literature that no one really understands, but I pretend I do so I can seem smarter than everyone else because I'm secretly insecure" day.  Also known as "Yay Ireland! We include James Joyce in your list of historical figures, because...well...you don't have any sober enough to really count" day. 

No, really, today is that day, but I forget what the name of it is because i'm too lazy to go and google it.  So if you could, Google it, mentally copy it, and paste it into the body of this blog post.  Thank you.  That's why I love you, reader. 

In other news of the stream of consciousness, I wanted to let you know that I have a deep love for something.  Deep like, in my gut.  Maybe even lower.  Maybe deep like in my bowels.  Yes, I have a bowels-deep love for being an obnoxious d-bag. 

Example: someone just emailed me and said, "oh, sir, lovely mr. Bill - you are so wonderful.  Can you please use your extensive knowledge of awesomeness and take a look at problem 'X' for me?  Because that would be so incredibly great that I would love you forever".

And I replied back.  "Yes, I can." 

And then I never looked at it.  Because they only asked if I was actually physically capable of doing so, not requesting for me to take that action.  ENGLISH LANGUAGE, FOOL.  If you look up "english" in the dictionary, you will NOT see your face, because you are dumb.  Also, people who do this are d-bags.

If you haven't noticed by now my consciousness is terribly immature and stupid. 

SO HUNGRY.  NEED TO PEE.  WHY IS BATHROOM SO FAR AWAY.



ok, I'm back.  with food.  and without...extra water weight *ahem*.

I wonder what would have happened if Ulysses had GPS and Skype?  No, now i don't wonder, cause I figured it out.  He wouldn't have gotten lost, traveling around trying to fight Cyclopses and Sirenes, and dragons (oh my).  There were dragons in the story, right?  *accessing mental database* - ok now there were.

After the war, he would have b-lined it straight back to his woman, who would have been all "oh Uly (pronounced You-Lee) You iz duh onlee man fo' me."  cause she speaks in creole.  Then they would have made creole-skype babies. 

Although I'm not entirely sure why, because it took him 20 years to cross the channel between turkey and greece.  By boat.  with an entire crew.  Something seems up.  Marco (polo!) went from Genoa to Asia and back in 24 years.  and he went BY FOOT.  Either old You-Lee is navigationally challenged (read: really effing dumb) or he spent 19 years and six months doin' his thang with one of the super-hot Sirenes.  cause really, no one believe the whole, "ooo, bee's wax in my ears!" crap.

brown-chicken-brown-cow!

I'm so sorry for this post.  Deeply, deeply sorry.  Like, bowels-deep sorry.  I was gonna vlog, but didn't get around to it.  so this is what you get.

Brilliant money making ideas

So, everyone needs money, and I am a person, so by the transitive property, money needs me?  I need everyone?  I was never really sure on the transitive property.

Anyway, here are a few brilliant ideas I plan on exploiting sometime in my life somehow to make money.

1. I am fairly adept at making noises.  Tapping, tsk-ing, knocking on things, using random phallic objects as drumsticks.  I will even sing a song to myself as I'm chewing so as to keep up some king of internal rhythm.  This MUST be worth something to someone
2. I can make, like, 10 different kinds of paper airplanes.  I'm thinking of having a paper airplane sale.  I'll color them with crayons.  and tear out little ailerons so the paper men can steer the aircraft.
3. Once upon a time, I was very good at hacky-sack.  I think somewhere in the back of my mind that translated either to a soccer career or a gig as a ninja.
4. I like playing with boys from the ages of 2 to 12.  Legos, and army men, and helicopter sound generators, and war, and capture the flag.  I could go on for hours with sweet games.  Maybe i could start a daycare for just little boys.  Or would people see that as creepy?
5. Discussing sciency stuff.  You know, Astronomy, chemistry, physics, and the like.  If you're at a party surrounded by geeks, you could call me, and i'll show up, and talk to them for you.  Maybe I'd get their number and hang out with them on the weekends for you.  Maybe we could all go to the science museum without you.  Watch some Bill Nye.  Who knows?  you're just not invited.  But I'll expect a check.
6. Blabbering excitedly about absolutely nothing.  I'm not sure how this will make me money, but I'm good at it, and with a little bit of creativity...! (crosses fingers hopefully)

Ok that's all I can think of.

Note: this was written just as I was about to leave on Friday, and I was rather coffee'd up and excited to go home and be awesome with my wife and son all weekend.  So don't take it the wrong way if I don't seem "Monday" enough for you.  WOO HOO

Why not to make fun of big Russian guys

I absolutely love Russian culture.  I love the food.  I love the music.  I love how they party.  Just about everything that encompasses how Russians go about their lives is entirely enthralling to me.

But, there is a limit to everything.  And I'm bad with knowing my limits.

Early in my relationship with my wife, she introduced me to a little gem of Northeast Philadelphia: Golden Gates.  If there was an empire of Russian restaurants, Golden Gates would be their Tsar.  It is Peter the Great amongst a gaggle of peasants.  The largest matryoshka to encompass all the others.

um...the...Alla Pugacheva of...ok, i think we've exhausted this.

I've only had my life threatened once.  But, I wasn't exactly aware of if at the time.

See, here's my side of the story.  My first time at Golden Gates was an experience.  Russian Restaurants in Philly are not like American restaurants.  There is more food than you can possibly imagine.  There is more liquor  than you can possibly imagine.  And there is a Song and Dance Troupe that performs all the hits from the Motherland from Victory Day to Today.  It is not suggested that you get up and dance, you are expected to get up and dance.  I was at an age where I was unaware of exactly how much vodka I could effectively handle, and I thought the more the better.

However...

Right around 6 shots of vodka, you are having a great time, and dance like an idiot all night long, but any more, and you're getting into dangerous territory. I was about 8 shots in with no food.  Bad idea. 

Somewhere between "Ah, Kakaya Zhenshina" and "Rodina Moya: Belorussia" I end up making fun of the way some guys on the dance floor were dancing.  Please note: this is highly discouraged in any situation, but especially when uncoordinated but massively built Russians are concerned.  


It's not my fault they looked like refrigerators whose doors wouldn't stay shut


After a couple of songs, my wife and I went outside to take a smoke break (back when we both smoked) and two of the guys I was ridiculing came out behind us.  By this time, I had forgotten that I was making fun of them.  They hadn't.  So when they came over to me, I thought they were being friendly.


They said a few angry words in Russian, most of which I didn't understand.  There was, however, the word sapogi (boots) and a fairly dirtier version of the word popa (rear end).  


Still misunderstanding, I was smiling like a complete idiot, and repeating the three words I knew at the time:  "Chto? Pochimu? Vse!"  (what?  why?  that's all!)  hoping that some combination or ordering of those three words would sort of make them chill out.


Literally, the next thing I know, I'm in one of my friends cars speeding away as fast as possible.  I don't remember what happened, but I'm told that one of them pulled a knife and said something to the effect of, "I'll show you how to speak Russian properly!" at which point we all scattered.


Good job, me.  I really know how to show my girl a good time.  This is why I refuse to drink when we go out anymore.  


The next time we went to Golden Gates, I stayed sober.  But so did my wife.  There was some sort of cosmic justice, however.  My wife was driving at the time, and as she was pulling out, she backed into some tricked out brand new BMW that someone had obviously put a lot of money and time into.  She guaranteed that there would be a little more money and time put into the car.  She was freaked, and I didn't want us both to die being taught Russian grammar, so we high tailed it out of there like Dick Dastardly and Muttley (*hee hee hee hee hee*)


Needless to say, we haven't gone to any Russian Restaurants since.

Two months in/friday ramble

This sunday, Sammy will reach his second month of existence.  Two entire months.  My wife and I were reveling in it a bit this morning - thinking how could it possibly be that the two of us are raising a baby.  It's like an explosion of "whoa".  He's starting to smile more, and as someone i was recently talking to pointed out, he's out of the "blob" phase of childhood, and slowly but surely moving into the "awesome" phase.

It's funny, though, how you come across the same empty questions and platitudes in every single social setting.

Examples:

Q: "How's it feel to be a father?" A: terrible, i wish it had never happened, and you're fat.

Q: "Is the little one sleeping?" A: yes, to a scary degree.  He hasn't woken up since birth.

Q: "How's your little one doing?" A: He's a newborn; he sleeps, eats, and poops.  Or did you want something groundbreaking?  Ok, sometimes, he spits up.

Platitude: Babies are great, aren't they? A: maybe the conversation could be over now?  you obviously have nothing interesting to say.

P: You've gotta take him outside, now that the weather's good.  A:  Hold on, REALLY? I need a notepad to write that down.  Thank god for your advice, otherwise we would have kept him in a cage under the sink until he was 30.  NOW WE KNOW. *calls wife* Honey! Guess what?!

I hate it when people who have no business giving you advice on your personal life decide to barge in and start giving it you unsolicited.  Take, for example, the other day.  I was at my local Mulch vender, aka Lowe's.  I was loading Mulch onto a cart, and a guy comes up and gives me this bit of Einstein: "Hey, you should save yourself the trouble and pull your car up, and just load up your car".

First of all, Shut up.  Second of all, i know it is a good idea, but still.  Shut up.  Lastly: I can smell you over the manure I'm loading onto the cart. Addendum: Seriously, shut up.

Part of me is glad that we don't live in a closer society.  This way, nobody will bother me by pointing it out when I'm doing something stupid.  None - O - Yo - BEEZwax.

Happy Friday everyone - Peace Love and Privacy.

Reversing from the Previous tone

I figured I didn't want to end the week in such a negative way, and considering I still have some time left before I'm out of here for the weekend, I wanted to share the best picture ever:

This is one of Sammy's first smiles.  He's done it before, but this is (I think at least) the first time we've captured it on camera.

And then there's this one:

That's the two of us being awesome, something we're fond of.

My wife: also being awesome.

Sometimes, I can't believe how lucky the three of us are to be so loved.

I want to have a snuggle sandwich with both of them.