Is there anything a cordless drill can’t do? Sure, it can drill holes into walls (or wood, or brick, depending on your mood), but there’s so much more it can do. For one thing, it can power a coiled snake to clean out a pipe in seconds flat. Last night, I fished oodles of gunk out of my bathroom and kitchen sinks in an effort to clear them – mission accomplished, by the way – but the job took several hours. What if I’d had a snake that attached to a cordless drill as opposed to one I had to turn by hand? Who knows, but I suspect the job would have taken considerably less time, and the results would have been considerably more satisfying.
Archive for the ‘Baby Blues’ Category
Spring training starts next week, which means every major league baseball team will begin the long (too long if you ask me) process of rounding its players into shape. And what will every manager say when interviewed by his local beat writer? “This year we’re going to focus on the fundamentals.” If only that were true. Unfortunately, not every team can be the Minnesota Twins. Most teams, my hometown Chicago Cubs included, infuriate their fans by overthrowing the cutoff man, grounding into brutal double plays, and leaving runners on third base with less than two outs. So here’s hoping this year’s Cubs finally stop shooting themselves in the foot by cutting down on needless mistakes. Practice, guys. Practice.
Soupy ice cream? No thanks. I’m a fan of chocolate in almost all its forms – chocolate brownies, chocolate bars, chocolate milk left over after eating a bowl of chocolate cereal – but this sounds unappetizing to me. Just like I don’t care for freezer burn on my ice cream, I also can’t stand it when my deliciously cold treat melts and turns into room-temperature goo. Still, I have been known to conduct temperature experiments with my desserts. A few years ago, I got in the habit of making hot chocolate and then sticking it in the fridge for a few hours so it would turn cold. The results weren’t groundbreaking, but they also weren’t half-bad.
I’m assuming this strip takes place shortly before dawn so I’ll cut the big-nosed dad some slack for not thinking of better ways to prove his manhood. Still, there are plenty of solid alternatives to his goofy suggestions. If my years of observations are correct, he could prove his manhood by: shaving his face; tying his own tie; blatantly checking out women on the train; referring to other men as “buddy”; losing his manufacturing job; insisting something be done “the right way”; watching a John Wayne movie; concocting a recipe for barbecue sauce; watching a Jet Li movie; spitting; and, if absolutely necessary, exposing himself in public. These actions would show him to be 100 percent male, no “yo” required.
Hmm…maybe facts are more interesting when you make them up. Let’s take the first sentence of John Philip Sousa’s Wikipedia entry: “John Philip Sousa was an American composer and conductor of the late Romantic era, known particularly for American military and patriotic marches.” That’s okay, but I prefer the following, falsified version: “John Philip Sousa was an innovative musician whose early recordings fused punk and hip-hop aesthetics. He was commercially unsuccessful, but has been cited as an influence by bands ranging from The Talking Heads to Fugazi.” (Apologies to Mr. Sousa…and to The Talking Heads and Fugazi, for that matter.)
It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten a bowl of sugary cereal for breakfast. I didn’t eat gobs of the stuff as a child, but I was allowed the occasional bowl of Lucky Charms, which was a curious cereal for my mom to be lax about considering the fact that it’s mostly marshmallows. I also indulged in Cocoa Crispies from time to time, which generated a nice little pool of chocolate milk at the end. I’m tempted to go buy a box right now, although I’m sure I could replicate the experience (and the dental work) by pouring milk over a handful of leftover M&Ms and chowing down.
This strip reminds me of one of the most disgusting (but also entertaining) things I’ve ever seen. A few years ago, my fiance and I were sitting in her cousin’s backyard, enjoying a nice summer evening with drinks and smores and friends and family. For reasons I can’t recall, her cousin decided to see how many pieces of bubble gum he could fit in his mouth at once. He was up to 18 pieces of Bubblicious before he decided to attempt a phone conversation. The poor guy almost choked on the sugary mass before spitting it out and succumbing to a coughing fit.