Applicrack

If you are a FaceBook user, you may be victim to the most heinous crime of the century and you probably enjoyed it. Somehow, someway, the deft little code monkeys (inside joke that I stole from a great big code monkey) at FaceBook (FB from now on) managed to write something that was once thought to be impossible. The code monkeys (actually not real monkeys, because that would be creepy, but rather cyber geeks chained to their cubicles, fed Doritos once an hour, and given inter-venous Red Bull) have incorporated real, honest-to-goodness crack cocaine into miniature programs called applications (they use the cute “app” abbreviation much like the cyber drug lords at Apple use for their synthetic narcotic, iCrack and the meth-heads at enMotion use a fruit based drug called the Crackberry) These tiny little “programs” are disguised as tiny little programs that have cute little furry animals, or cyber people working on farms or in cafes, or Medieval Vampire Mobsters who do nothing but amass friends and money and beat each other up. These “apps” may seem mundane and simple at first, but the slowly drag you in with promises of fun and friends and ways to grow your little empire of bliss. But much like crack (and porn, ironically), soon you find yourself devoting every waking moment to amassing enough points to “level up” so you can get a new stove, a new type of pet/crop, or a new weapon that decimates all players in the vicinity of Iceland (a FB user recently used this weapon, called ASH HOLE). Finally, your wife walks in on you foaming at the mouth, slapping the veins on your arm, crying in agony, as your FB shows that your “apps” cannot be accessed today because of system maintenance. Those damn code monkeys are hard at work screwing with your high, and its time for you to take back your life and resume playing World of WarCraft until three in the morning.

Join the Club

Why does it seem that parenthood is like a fraternity/sorority of excruciating pain? The phrase misery loves company can be used in this application. Every time my wife and I say we are expecting our first child there is an immediate reaction of joy, “Oh my God, congratulations!” or “You must be so excited!” or “I bet you can’t wait.” Then follows what I call the “tell”, that pause of doom that lets you know this is a parent, and suddenly they are reminded of Dante’s Inferno, the third ring being occupied by parents who are forced to repeat the third trimester, labor, delivery, and the post partum 3 months. Their eyes glaze over, a wince appears on their face, but just before you ask them “What’s wrong?” they quickly recover and give you the “I can only be happy if more people join us” lie of; “You’re going to love it!”
This may be a sophisticated form of hazing, with the intention of making expecting parents terrified of what the next few months will hold. It seems that it succeeds quite regularly, and appears to be a time honored tradition and a method of retrieving some of the dignity that was lost when it happened to them. In sociological terms, this is referred to as a cycle of behavior (violence, abuse, etc.) that is perpetuated by its victims in order to be accepted by their tormentors. This cycle must be broken, and as a man of conscience, I feel it my responsibility to break this chain. No longer will we fear hormones, delivery rooms, crying babies, poopy diapers, and insomnia. No longer will we strike fear into the hearts of already nervous expecting parents just because it was done to us.
HEAR ME NOW! You people looking to procreate will only receive the truth, not exaggerations designed to make you freak out and run away. We will comfort you and ease you of your worries. Besides…if you can survive the first trimester of psychotic hormones, projectile nausea, defacto celibacy, and extremely tender breasts then YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE IT!

Vegas, Baby!! Vegas Baby?!

Your parents probably told you the story while you cringed, asking to be spared of the gory details, the nightmarish thoughts of your parental units getting all “brown chicken, brown cow”! Thinking that telling you would be some proof of how special your creation truly was, not realizing how it created uncomfortable thoughts of how your celibate Puritanical Mom and Dad could get busy and thus void your illusion of being the second Immaculate Conception. You survived it and maybe it, unbeknownst to you, was actually a rite of passage into adulthood: yes, Virginia, Mommy and Daddy perform the horizontal Mambo, they may even talk dirty to each other, and the bottle of “vitamins” on the Daddy’s nightstand, and the “massager” in Mommy’s dresser drawer are for having adult fun.
When I came to realize these things, I in some way promised myself and my future children that I would try to create them in the most mundane fashion that produced the least amount of possible back story. As fate should have it, the first addition to our loving family will one day be tortured with the terribly fabulous way in which they were conceived. I’ll spare you the details (mostly because I certainly remind you more of Tom Arnold than Tom Cruise) but it really all started because we just needed a vacation. Our most favorite place to go has always been Las Vegas, and this time we tried to keep our trip on the DL, a couple’s getaway if you will. We would actually get adult activities in; if you catch my meaning (previous trips prohibited such activity based on poor timing).
Las Vegas is a fabulous city with an exceptional marketing campaign that completely captures the frivolity and carefree attitude you are lead to believe exists. They promote an amnesia based vacation getaway that completely absolves one of any repercussions for the wild and crazy time they may have. They tell you it never happened. They are lying to us! I am here to tell you that on May 17th (or near that date anyway) there will be flesh and bone proof that What Happens in Vegas Doesn’t Stay There! And in about sixteen years that poor proof will hear all about it!

Strange Things Are a Foot

I am convinced that my foot must taste delicious; better than the most luscious strawberries, juicy than prime rib, more divine than the finest chocolate. Why else would I be so compelled to place it in my mouth with such great regularity? I refuse to give specific examples, mostly because you, in all likelihood, know my wife and she probably has divulged some of my most dandy moments. I could claim a complete misunderstanding in many cases, but that would be pointless because “stoopid” really isn’t a language and therefore, by definition, can’t be understood. Most of you know me to be a relatively intelligent and literate individual, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I am on rare occasions (mostly between the hours of 11pm and 1am), suddenly transformed into Captain Dumbass, the insensitive jerk, foot-cuisine connoisseur.
In desperation, I consulted the Dr. Oz Show (shut up!) for answers. Amazingly Dr. Oz explained that during fetal development, a certain chemical is released into the baby’s blood stream that actually slows the activity of the right brain, which houses much of the emotional sensitivity and communication skills. This chemical is predominantly found in highest quantities in roughly half of developing babies, and continues to dominate that population through their adult life. The chemical? Why TESTOSTERONE of course!! At this point, I would ask that the males in the room quickly run for cover…or assume your traditional position when you receive the “I told you so” moment from your estrogen rich partner. If you are gay men, you may simultaneously point the finger at each other. For our lesbian friends, clearly you have perfect communication skills; you may now leave the room.
So, it is clear that my affinity for my foot is not through any fault of my own. It is clearly my mother and father’s fault and God (non-denominational deity may be substituted here) had a part in it to. Testosterone was given to me, I never knowingly took it, nor was I aware of the effects it was having on me. Aside from the penis, the beard and the amazing amount of muscle, there were no indications that I was benefiting from these. I blame this all on my wi…mmm…warfle…wurble… wow, this foot tastes like strawberry cheesecake!

As Holes go…this one is a Metaphor!!

Like every other unreasonable hormonally challenged guy on this planet, I knew I could fix it. It would of course save us money and what could those over priced technicians do that Mr. Handyman couldn’t. First it was the plumbing auger that was five feet to short. Then it was the drain pipe that was 5 inches too short, followed by the root kill that barely reached the root. I realize now after ten projects in between that I have a common condition that plagues nearly seventy five percent of men (the other twenty five percent of males are “fabulously” gay or filthy rich which means they lack the gene that causes…): Handyman’s ADD. Wives, at this time I invite you to leave the room. Trust me, the last thing your dear husband wants you to read is this admission of a condition that has the following symptoms: hard charging, assertive statements full of excessive testosterone that sound something like “I refuse to pay a bleeping repairman $50 an hour to stand around and tell me that a bleeping screw is loose!!”; multiple trips to the local home improvement store for “the part I know will fix this damn thing,” utilizing terminology such as “thing a ma jig” or “special fitting”; belligerent responses to simple questions such as “when did you plan on finishing that hole?” using quips such as “do you know how to fix it? Didn’t think so!” and “you got a better idea” ; sudden postponement of project to begin another project that suddenly becomes more important “I got to fix that screen door before I can get the drain to work”; and finally the realization that a qualified technician is needed “I could do this but I don’t have the right tools for the job and that tool is just too darn expensive.”
Ladies, if you ignored my warning and still happen to be reading this blog and it sounds amazingly familiar, take two deep breaths and step away from the knife set. He’s only doing what he is genetically compelled to do because in less civilized times, the man was the hunter and therefore was constantly needed in the society. There wasn’t a local grocery and a group wouldn’t outsource their hunting needs. In modern times, however, the only needs a man fulfills involve sex and upkeep. If he’s married, sex is a ritual performed once or twice a month simply to ward off any evil spirits lurking under the covers, which can also be accomplished by using a sanitizing detergent bath. Fortunately for our modern male homo-sapiens, upkeep seems a decent way for a man to remain dutifully needed and not totally replaced by a battery powered substitute. The difficulty lies in keeping enough things in disrepair that the female feels compelled to continue utilizing her husband, but he must be on guard not to let everything go awry for she may elect to replace him or phone a suitable substitute. While this vicious circle of repair is not consciously put into action by males, it does however preserve our place in the society. So when the toilet is on the fritz for several weeks, just remember it’s all societies fault and we husbands need to be needed, too!

Every Day’s My Birthday

It happens to all of us once a year (unless of course you were born on February 29th, then you get one every four, which means you look really old for your age). It’s supposed to be a celebration of one more year of living, but it has always struck as a little odd that we only celebrate in increments of years. Imagine if we could celebrate every day, another day of living. Why is it people who are closest to death are the only ones that finally get that feeling of joy over one more day. If all of us could actually start each morning in celebration, imagine just how much better life would be. Then it dawned on me why we don’t and I fear this may sound a bit cynical, but its big business’ fault. Yes, the conspirators that brought you Enron, the Recession, and a host of other scandals now want you to be grumpy in the morning, irritated during the day and angry at night. Why you ask? Simple, it’s the revenue streams. Let’s start with grumpy mornings. If you leaped out of bed, thrilled to greet the world, rested and excited to meet the challenges of a new day, what wouldn’t you need? Exactly, Caffeine! Think of the billions of dollars we spend on products to get alert and awake, because we have to drag our rear ends out of bed, because we are not genuinely happy about having to get out of bed. Starbucks alone would collapse from early morning happiness. Imagine the horror of “dinks” strolling out their front door, cheerily climbing into their Beemers, cruising past the local Starbucks and cruising into the parking lot at work without the double espresso in the cup holder. Talk about economic collapse, the government would create a stimulant stimulus package for coffee mega-companies.
If caffeine production must be preserved, think of what we would have to do for the pharmaceutical companies. Think about how many of the people you know are on some kind of mood altering substance, whether they are anti-depressants or anti-psychotics. Now I’m not saying that some people don’t need medication but I think the vast majority of us are just bored and frustrated and feel like rats trapped in a maze. It’s amazing how much our beloved technology has not increased our free time but rather trapped us in an inescapable never-ending circle of availability. When do any of us actually hang up, or tune out? When do we disconnect with the rest of the world and connect with the people under our roofs? When do we actually take time to listen to the silence? Take a minute to turn off every piece of communication device you have for one hour. If you don’t actually go crazy from withdrawal, you may actually get to a place called serenity and you might feel the inner peace and tranquility of…hang on, got a call from the pharmacy on the other line…Xanax must be ready…oooh, just got a fantasy football update…I could use a latte espresso bumbalala…

Friends, Romans, Countrymen…Send me your ideas?

A few weeks ago I placed a note on Facebook soliciting blog ideas, and a few of my concerned friends sent in rather creative ideas listed below (the names of been changed to protect the goofy):

Trachel: If snails could run...

Cho: I was also thinking about young kids with cellphones. I saw a 10 yr old kid at 9 this morning talking on a cell. WTF could he possibly have to talk about?

Blainie: ok.. we need your take on one of the biggest debates in history... Jeanie vs. Bewitched

I thank them for their bravery, as I’m sure they were aware they would end up in a blog. As an homage, I shall address their issues (no, just the ones listed above…Jerry Springer can handle the rest!)

CHO:

Young kids with cell phones will prove to be an evolutionary necessity. Millennia from now the human race will no longer have opposable thumbs and their fingers will shrivel to nubs, due to the over usage of video game controllers. By having our children constantly place cell phones to their ears, eventually the equipment, much in the same fashion as the Borg, will become biomechanically integrated into their skull. Thus eliminating the need for key pads as messaging and dialing will be brain activated.

Blainie:

I Dream of Jeannie. Barbara Eden was hotter and wore less clothes. Really? There was a debate?

Trachel:

If snails could run, Nike would slap endorsement stickers on their shells and start an ad campaign: Nike….How fast could you run carrying your house?...Just Do It!!

You too, could make it to my blog!!