I refuse to wear the socks

Shirtlessboy is a cub scout.

To a 7 year old this means he goes to a place where there are a bunch of other kids who wear the same thing and they run around until someone holds up the dreaded "sign" and they have to settle down for at least 30 seconds.

Like most guys my age I recall my time in the scouts as a positive period (eroded by time, but it's still a positive memory). I didn't make it to the holy grail of scouting - Eagle. I'm not sure I even made it to groundhog or horn toad, but I showed up and rubbed sticks till my hands hurt with the best of them. They didn't ask us to rub sticks, I just liked rubbing sticks. Don't judge.

I lived in South Africa as a kid. My dad says he was an electrical engineer and worked on TV in the apartheid ruled South Africa in the mid 70's. But my brother, sister and I know the truth - he was actually in the CIA and the electrical engineer story was a clever cover. We know this because when we got there (early '73) everything was cool, when we left (late '76) everything there went to crap. TV is bad, but it doesn’t make people burn down their homes.

We've asked him many times to come clean but apparently he took some kind of super secret pinkie ring oath and still hasn't admitted to being a member of The Company. Sorry dad, I hope me saying this doesn't mean you and mom have to move out in the middle of the night guarded by a guy named "Chuck" who wears dark sunglasses.

Anyway, my scout experience is limited to the scouts in South Africa. Those were some real scouting adventures. Lion wrestling badges, ribbons for the Cheetah race, rhino dodge. Good times.

Zip like a hundred years forward and here I am volunteering as a scout leader for my sons pack. I think it's important for him to see me involved. The thing is... much as it was for me as a kid; I don't think I really fit in.

The other night I went to a district meeting. Let me set the stage, this is a meeting of all the other adult leaders in the district. There are NO kids there, only 30 adults all wearing oversized boy scout uniforms and attempting to keep their shirt tucked in over well developed peach cobbler induced bellies.

I walk into the "meeting" and right into an episode of the outer limits. We start by singing songs, followed by some more songs and a quick discussion on "advanced" training we can attend which I didn't get the memo on because I'm apparently the only one in the room who has NO idea what the hell I need to go to the training for. The smartass in me was DYING! I could feel the smartass part of me starting to sit upright in the seat and wanting to ask where we sign up for tent assembly training and how many pushups can we make the kids do in a single set before we have to submit a form.

Did I mention that I was the ONLY adult there who wasn't wearing the overgrown boy scout uniform? Nope, I was there in civilian clothes, further indication that I didn't belong. Judging by the way some were dressed I thought maybe we were going to go on a hike and build a fire in the parking lot instead of sitting in a church lunchroom on plastic chairs at 7 p.m. on a weeknight without a beer in sight.

I know I'm going to have to break down and get the uniform, but I'll be damned if I'm going to wear the green socks.

everyone knows that

I love me some Olympics. I don't really care what the event is; swimming, pole vault, badminton, trampoline, squirrel chase. Whatever, let’s roll with it. By the way, why did they take out the tug-of-war?

You see, I’m an expert in each event.

An expert you ask? Yes, it’s true. I’m an expert; they should have me on a con call at each event to obtain my opinion. I should be there in person but the Olympic Committee won’t allow it after the 1984 fiasco where my presence was seen as an unfair advantage in the eyes of the Russian judges (they made sure I was in boot camp when those were going on).

If you really knew me this is the part where the word “…bullshit” would start to enter your mind. You see, I don’t watch sports. I don’t keep up with sports. I don’t know the ESPN channel number by heart. I’m usually clueless as to what season it actually is. I’ve never actually seen a basketball game in person and never on TV unless I can’t avoid it and that goes for most other professional sports.

Odd you say?

I guess so. It’s not that I don’t try, I do. I’m a guy living in America after all; to not know ~anything~ about sports is to suggest I might play for the other team. Don’t make that mistake. I’m quite secure in my manhood thank you very much. It’s just that I have no real interest in most of what sports have to offer.

I do have respect for anyone who puts their heart into anything and plays at 110% regardless of the situation. To me these are the true athletes. They don’t get $40 million a year and then act like jackass rock stars; they don’t even have to be good. Put your heart into it each and every time and I’ll be on the sidelines rooting my ass off for you.

I think this is why the Olympics capture my attention and make me into a blithering idiot.

Here I am yelling at the TV, “come on… stick the landing... ah, he took a step, his weight was too far forward. It looked to me like he rotated just a bit too much on the dismount. Everyone knows the setup for the dismount is the most critical portion of the exercise”.

Yea, everyone knows that. Get me a drink while you’re up.

By the way, am I the only one judging all the other countries by whether they had hot girls on their team and if their uniforms didn’t look totally jacked up?

GO USA!

Ode to Momma Posy

It's been a tough week here are Dad - thedude headquarters. So, I thought instead of staring at the screen waiting for inspiration to strike through the smog laden cloud of exhaustion, I would invite my little sister in as a guest blogger.

To my readers (both of you, plus that one lurker), here's Toots:

Ode to Momma Posy

I called my grandma today. I don't know why I don't do that more often. She is such a funny lady. She's 87 years old (geez, is she really that old?), and she doesn't get around much on account of she doesn't have any hips anymore . . . although she has been known to walk around and cook a meal or run a vacuum for a spell. With no hip bones, you shreak? If you knew my lineage, you'd understand. This sort of rebellion against incapacitation runs deep in the female line. Just ask my mother. Get in my mom's way, and she'll beat you with her cane.

So I mentioned to my grandma that I needed to come visit her, since I haven't been to see her in (I won't say how long since it's been an embarrassingly long time). I expected her to say something nice and grandma-like, like "Yes, dear, anytime, I'd love to have you." Nope. Her response was short and sharp: "What's the DEAL?"

"Uh . . . "

You gotta love it when Grandma gives it to you straight. Mind you, this was the woman who told me when I was little to go outside and pick out my switch when I had to get a whoopin'. I stammered a bit, and then she let me off easy by changing the subject to something funny . . . something that she witnessed that I thought was hilarious and wanted to share.

This is such a Grandma story. (Well, maybe not YOUR Grandma story, but it's a Grandma Posy story for sure.)

My grandma writes poetry, and she does poetry readings at a nursing home once a month. One recent visit, a grandson was visiting his grandmother at the nursing home. He kept asking his grandmother questions like "How old are you?" and "How much do you weigh?", and the grandmother kept telling him that those questions were impolite to ask women. Later on, in front of everyone, the boy announced to his grandmother that she was 65 years old, 145 pounds, and that she got an "F" in sex . . . he said he found her license while she wasn't looking.

Now I thought that was hilarious. But then I looked at my license and saw they don't put your weight on it, so it was just a joke. But she sure convinced me. Crazy old woman.

Here are a few of my favorite poems that she wrote.

Untitled 1990 (age 69)

I’m an old woman “Okie”

I don’t drinkie, I don’t smokie

If I live to seventie,

I haven’t gone to heaventie---

I’m gonna try it, and that’s no jokie.

Silver Nights 1939 (Written in High School)

Snow falls, skies lighten, and the cold wind sighs among silver trees.

Night falls, skies darken, and the loan wolf shivers in the chilling breeze.

A pale moon, a ghostly heaven, a star to flicker and shine . . .

It’s selfish to dream,

And always seem,

That this night alone will be mine.

‘Till Then

I stand tall among it all.

The trials of life are many.

Storm clouds gather, the waters flow,

And the sky is dark and windy.

But I close my eyes. I have a dream,

Of better things to come.

The road is rough, and life is tough.

But I’ll stay ‘till my work is ended.

The last one is my favorite.

Grandma (we call her Momma Posy) is an inspiration to me. She's a tough old bird with a great sense of humor. She makes me laugh. My mom is the same way.

-- Tootsie (Dad-thedudes favorite sister)

yes, it's my toughest level

The only time I ever felt truly rewarded for playing video games happened at a video game arcade on Lovers Lane in Dallas around 1982. We were rocking it old school on asteroids since the caterpillar game was being monopolized by seniors and we didn't want to risk a confrontation. My friend kicked the machine because he hyper spaced into an asteroid or his headband slipped over his eyes or something and the door on the front of the machine swung open... exposing two 1-gallon containers full of quarters (cue: heavenly music).

The statute of limitations has passed, so I'll admit that we ended up playing asteroids that day for a very long time with our new found wealth and didn't suffer from remorse because the guy who ran the place was a royal jerkwad (that was 1982 tough talk for someone who was a pain-in-the-ass. We actually didn't know what it meant but the older kids said it).

When I was about 13 yrs old my dad brought home one of those old school stand up video games. It had ONE game and two-colors (black and yellow). I struggle with the name of the game but it was something like "Chicken Egg". The premise of the game was to catch eggs before they hit the bottom of the low resolution screen and the game made this odd computer generated sound that if you tried real hard sounded like a chicken. Sorta. The quarter slot on this behemoth was fixed so you could just hit a button for "credits". My brother, sister and I would stand at that machine for hours. Squawk, squawk, squawk.... squawk. It soon lost its appeal and became a coat rack.

It's fair to say that I don't have an aversion to video games and I don't mind my kids playing age appropriate games. Meaning; no head shots, no running blood and no decapitation.

My tolerance has a breaking point.

I think it's apparent when the amount of game play has exceeded the recommended level. It's when games or game strategy become part of everyday conversation or worse when it becomes everything. This sends me over the edge and I have zero issues with ripping the video cable out of the machine and kicking the kids outside when I reach that point.

Example: A few years ago my oldest son (tallboy) was obviously hitting the video game crack pipe a little too much. I came home from work one day after "one of those days". I was worn out and collapsed on the couch. He had a look of total despair and understanding and asked "was it like your toughest level?” Tallboy spent the next 4 hours outside playing in the dirt.

This morning as I was preparing to leave for work I overheard Shoelessboy and Shirtlessboy playing games and talking upstairs. I heard the oldest (ShirtlessBoy) say to his younger sibling "I hope you fall off that chair and break your arm so you can't use the controller 'cause then it's my turn". WTF.

Anyone interested in a used video cable for a Wii?


UPDATE:

I can admit when I'm a dork. I emailed my sister (who calls anymore?) to ask her what the name of that game was dad brought home. It's painfully obvious who got the brains in our family. Here is her response -- DTD

The Juggler. I'm not going to be able to get that song out of my head now. Thanks! Remember how Dad made us pay to use it at first, and you tried to tie a piece of string to a quarter? I think that contraption was Dad's way of getting back at us . . . making us pay literally and figuratively for whatever we were costing him and all the racket and whining he had been enduring up until then. Think about it. When you hear that song now, how long does it stick with you? Does your eye twitch? Do you lose sleep? I don't lose sleep, but I do feel a twitch now and then when I hear it. We were willing to dig for quarters to play that stupid ass game despite how annoying that incessant noise was. We thought it was so freakin' cool to have an arcade game in the house (didn't matter it was juggling stupid chicken eggs). And now I can't even hear the song without shuttering and the occasional eye twitch. See? Dad got the last laugh. (But I bet he can't hear that song without getting a twitch, too.) -- Toots

Dude, I so remember that now. I had a whole bunch of quarters as I recall... -- DTD

stick your arm in this hole

I don't make it habit of making too much fun of rednecks for the following reasons:

1) They usually own guns. ( Correction - make that "always" )
2) It hits a little too close to home.
3) See number 1.

Yea, that's right. I'm just a couple of generations from a horse plow in south central Oklahoma. I'm proud to say that the area where my family came from is now the noodling capital of the world and therefore the redneck capital of the world by-proxy.

In Oklahoma, they would say it this way "yup, we be da noodlin' cap-i-tal of da wurld an uh rednek cap-i-tal ta boot 'causing it says so on the interweb".

Right now I guarantee there are people in south Oklahoma reading this at the community center and saying "now dat der be da buggest bullshit it ever told, we dont be a talking like dat an a he is certainly dead - d. e. d. - dead. Is'n that boy who done wroten that interweb one of da boy from who family around dat der Paoli, Oklahoma. Im a gunna shoot his ass next time he done come around, bet yur ass. Get in da truck, bitch".

In case you are unfamiliar with the "sport" of Noodling (aka: hand fishing), allow me to explain. Catfish breed in holes and are highly protective; they bite at anything invading their love nest. Apparently, when you look prehistoric and finally find a little nookie, it pisses you off when someone tries to horn in on your action. (Ain't that right Jason P - love ya man)

Here is how you can enjoy this highly interactive "sport":

1) Drink a 6 pack of beer (Original Coors - 'banquet beer' works good here)
2) Take a huge dip of copenhagen
3) Get in some water where you can't see anything
4) Feel around on the bank for a hole underwater, shove your arm into the hole
5) If a catfish is in the hole, shove your arm into its mouth and allow it to bite into your arm
6) Pull the thing out and hand it to your friends (safety tip: don't drown in the process)
7) Drink some more beer
8) Dry off your mullet. Nobody likes a dripping wet mullet. Keep a mullet towel in your truck for this step.

Thanks, but I'd rather just order it off a menu with some lemon and fried okra.

In case you are interested in noodling, you should know that its illegal in all states except Oklahoma and step 1 is required by law. While not required, but strongly suggested, you should walk with a limp from a fight you had with your brother-in-law last Thanksgiving (that son-of-a-bitch had it coming) and your kids should all have buzzcuts.

I think there's a little redneck in all of us, for some it just comes a little more natural than we care to admit. I'll tell you this much however, nobody will ever invade the lower 48 states. If you want a fight on your hands come on down and start pushing these folks around at the local Wal-Mart. Insurgency my ass.

Wait, I think that's the plot from Red Dawn. Damn that Patrick Swayze and his Wolverines.


This isn't me (or Patrick Swayze).
$10 says I'm related in some way to this guy and $20 to keep that on the down-low.


Update:
I expect a call from my mom at any moment warning me to take down this post. "Sweetie, we shouldn't be messin' with 'dose folks. They is just country and don't know no better. They might get in their truck and come down I-35 to find you. Whew, scares the bigibees outta me".

Don't worry ma. They won't make it past the triple X place on the border - "oh looky, boobies. I like me sum boobies".