Throughout my married life I am constantly reminded that I am probably clinically insane and that my wife Trina should be considered for some sort of sainthood. This has always bothered me. Not that I don’t think my wife should be canonized but I think I get overlooked in her candidacy. After all, if she didn’t have to deal with me on a daily basis she would never even be considered as a saint. Usually I just smile and nod like a bobble head doll. Every once in a while though I have to step forward and show that I am not the only crazy one in our relationship. Take today for example, I received an email from Trina with the following.
Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.
Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.
Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.
Doughboy is survived by his wife Play Dough, three children: John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart.
The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.
I am both saddened by this news and at the same time very proud of my wife. I think she has definitely the first step towards the dark side. Soon we shall rule the universe with our own brand of humor and craziness. By the way to Mrs. Dough, I am very sorry about your loss; that really bites.read more
Today is Columbus Day. Well technically yesterday was Columbus Day and today is Columbus Day Observed. It always drives me crazy when the government decides it can randomly change the date of a holiday in order to conform to a workday. I think that frustrates me because the only reason that they move the holiday is so that they get a day off from work. That is like putting my kids in charge of monitoring the cookie level in the cookie jar. No matter how good their intentions I can guarantee that the cookies will be distributed in such a way that they will get the most while the rest of us will get a subset of the total available cookies. The fact that I had to get up this morning and go to work while the postal service, retail banking, and government workers were able to sleep in has not endeared me to Columbus Day Observed. But that’s not the only issue I have with Columbus Day.read more
When I was a child there would be times when I would begin to complain about how my life wasn’t fair. This was usually as a result of being denied some privilege that I felt I was entitled to. I would complain to my parents or grandparents about how demoralizing it was not to have the same rights as my friends and how no one understood the mental and physical scars I would have to carry with me my whole life as a result of not getting what I wanted or deserved. Like most adults, my parents and grandparents showed very little empathy for my situation. In fact they seemed to enjoy hearing me complain.
At first I didn’t understand why they delighted in hearing me complain but then I realized it gave them a perfect opportunity in which they could interject how good I really had it. It didn’t stop there though. They would then begin to tell me how difficult their lives were and how easy mine was. I would have to listen to stories about how my father had to milk a whole herd of cows before he was allowed to go on a date or how my mother had to walk miles in the snow to get milk and groceries so that my grandmother could make dinner. These stories paled in comparison with those of my grandparents who would tell about how they lived in a tent in the dead of winter and that they had no running water or bathrooms. These of course were completely foreign to me and I came away half wondering whether they were making this up. Honestly, was I supposed to believe that my grandfather was chased by a bear on his way to the school house?