Something’s fishy
We’ve had a three-week run of amazing weather here in south central Texas. It’s been a little too cool in the mornings for my taste, but by 10 a.m. it has been just beautiful. So when I found out that I had last Friday off from work, and my kids were off as well, I decided to take them fishing.
Now, I’ve said in this column before that I’m not much of a fisherman. I like it okay, it’s just not one of my favorite things in the world to do. I think I like the idea of going fishing on a beautiful day way more than I like the fishing itself.
My kids, however, love it. So like any good father, that’s what I decided to do with my day off.
So it was me, my three kids, my daughter’s friend and my dog all loaded up in the ol’ Jeep. When we added a case of water, the tackle box, a couple of fishing poles, a box of worms and a bucket, we were packed in there like sardines. And yes, I do see the irony.
My son and I threw a hook in the water as soon as we got there. Our plan was to use a couple of the worms to catch a few small perch, then use those perch or the rest of the worms to catch us a big catfish or maybe even a bass.
Right from the start, we were having trouble. We were both looking at dozens of perch right there in front of us, but the sneaky little rascals somehow kept taking our worms without getting hooked. Meanwhile, the girls kept bugging us about wanting to fish, too. I didn’t have enough fishing poles, so I just tied some hooks to some old string I found and let them have at it.
“Dad, those girls are taking our spot,” my son said.
“That’s okay buddy,” I told him. “If we aren’t catching anything, they won’t either. They’ll get bored in a couple of minutes and be gone before you know it.”
So I baited one of the hooks, then another one, and when I was putting a piece of worm on the third girl’s hook the first girl yelled out “I’ve got one!” I looked up, and sure enough one of my daughters had a little perch on her hook.
“Okay, just give me a second and I’ll..”
“I’ve got one too!” hollered my daughter’s friend. And while I unhooked those two fish- you guessed it- my youngest daughter pulls one out of the water.
After that, my son and I spent most of our time either baiting their hooks or pulling fish off of them.
“Number five!” my oldest daughter yelled.
“Number eight for me!” said her friend. And on, and on, and on.
And when I did get to fish, you wanna know what I caught? Two stinkin’ turtles. The first one was embarrassing, because it was in front of all the kids and it fooled me. I thought I had a big old lazy fish on the line, and I was talking trash to the girls the whole time I reeled it in.
“Whew hoo,” I laughed. “I’m gonna be eating good tonight girls, while y’all are eating fish sticks.” Then they all saw the turtle and laughed so hard they almost fell off the pier.
And of course, you know how the rest of the day went…
“Number thirteen!”
“Number fourteen!”
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Chicken it is, I guess
I took a couple of weeks off from my column, and that means that I’ve got plenty to talk about this week.
First of all, let me burst a few bubbles out there. No matter where I go, for the past 12 years, people always say to me “Your wife is such a sweet person”, or “You sure are lucky to have such a sweet wife like that”. Well now, folks. Let’s all pump our brakes and slow down just a bit.
All year long, for as long as I can remember, I look forward to the St. Mary’s Fall Festival. It’s a local church bizarre, and for the last couple of years my wife has been very involved in it. There are games for the kids, plenty of socializing, and all the money raised goes to a great cause.
But the thing I enjoy most about it is the food. That’s what keeps me dreaming about it all year long. What I do is wait ‘till about noon or so, and I go get me a couple of fajita tacos and a, um, cold beverage (It’s a Catholic church, don’t panic.). Then I mill about for a while, talking a little football with a few buddies and trying to hide from my kids so they don’t ask me for more money. After an hour or two I mosey on over and get a plate of the best spaghetti that you’ve ever tasted. (And ladies, please don’t tell me your spaghetti is the best. Unless you are Italian, you aren’t even in the conversation. Sorry.)
Anyway, I had to work all day this past Sunday and couldn’t make it to the bizarre. First time in years that I’ve missed it. I kept thinking that somehow, someway, my wife would find a way to get me a couple of fajita tacos.
“She loves me,” I told myself. “And she knows how much I love those tacos. There’s no way she won’t take care of me.” And I’d wait another hour or so, and look up again. “Surely someone she knows was coming this way at least. I’ll bet she sends me something with them.” An hour or two later, and still nothing.
I finally gave up on the tacos about 2:00 p.m. or so, but still held out hope that she would bring me a plate of spaghetti home. My sister even sent me a picture on my phone of my son, knee deep in a plate of it. He was using a pitchfork to shovel it in, and he had sauce all over his face. Surely my wife paid for me a plate at the same time that she bought my son a plate, right?
“That’s the ticket,” I said to myself. “A good ol’ pile of spaghetti, with homemade meatballs, and maybe a few pieces of bread. Perfect.”
So I finally get through mowing and weed eating at 5:00, and on my way home I give her a call.
“Do y’all have any tacos or spaghetti left?”
“I don’t think so,” she told me. “I think they have a few hamburgers left over.”
Hamburgers? What the? I don’t want a hamburger. You can get a hamburger at Sonic (Although they put the vegetables and the meat upside down. Another topic for another column.) You can get a hamburger at Dairy Queen. Hell, you can get a hamburger anywhere.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been really busy, and I haven’t even eaten myself.” I had to settle for a greasy box of chicken and a jalapeno.
I can hear a lot of you readers saying “Shannon, she was working for the church. Give her a break.” But like most stories in life, this one has two sides. A darker side. A sinister side.
As it turns out, the investigation revealed that indeed, her mother brought her a fajita taco at 11:36 a.m. It had meat, guacamole, pico de gallo and a touch of sour cream. She just didn’t think about me as she inhaled it.
Let the record also show that at 6:42 p.m., minutes after she arrived home, I walked into the kitchen and witnessed her spinning her fork in the last bit of spaghetti on a plastic plate. I never even got a bite.
There, folks, is your “sweet little wife”. A woman that would let her husband shrivel up and blow away into the wind from hunger, were it not for his own survival skills… and the chicken place.
I took a couple of weeks off from my column, and that means that I’ve got plenty to talk about this week.
First of all, let me burst a few bubbles out there. No matter where I go, for the past 12 years, people always say to me “Your wife is such a sweet person”, or “You sure are lucky to have such a sweet wife like that”. Well now, folks. Let’s all pump our brakes and slow down just a bit.
All year long, for as long as I can remember, I look forward to the St. Mary’s Fall Festival. It’s a local church bizarre, and for the last couple of years my wife has been very involved in it. There are games for the kids, plenty of socializing, and all the money raised goes to a great cause.
But the thing I enjoy most about it is the food. That’s what keeps me dreaming about it all year long. What I do is wait ‘till about noon or so, and I go get me a couple of fajita tacos and a, um, cold beverage (It’s a Catholic church, don’t panic.). Then I mill about for a while, talking a little football with a few buddies and trying to hide from my kids so they don’t ask me for more money. After an hour or two I mosey on over and get a plate of the best spaghetti that you’ve ever tasted. (And ladies, please don’t tell me your spaghetti is the best. Unless you are Italian, you aren’t even in the conversation. Sorry.)
Anyway, I had to work all day this past Sunday and couldn’t make it to the bizarre. First time in years that I’ve missed it. I kept thinking that somehow, someway, my wife would find a way to get me a couple of fajita tacos.
“She loves me,” I told myself. “And she knows how much I love those tacos. There’s no way she won’t take care of me.” And I’d wait another hour or so, and look up again. “Surely someone she knows was coming this way at least. I’ll bet she sends me something with them.” An hour or two later, and still nothing.
I finally gave up on the tacos about 2:00 p.m. or so, but still held out hope that she would bring me a plate of spaghetti home. My sister even sent me a picture on my phone of my son, knee deep in a plate of it. He was using a pitchfork to shovel it in, and he had sauce all over his face. Surely my wife paid for me a plate at the same time that she bought my son a plate, right?
“That’s the ticket,” I said to myself. “A good ol’ pile of spaghetti, with homemade meatballs, and maybe a few pieces of bread. Perfect.”
So I finally get through mowing and weed eating at 5:00, and on my way home I give her a call.
“Do y’all have any tacos or spaghetti left?”
“I don’t think so,” she told me. “I think they have a few hamburgers left over.”
Hamburgers? What the? I don’t want a hamburger. You can get a hamburger at Sonic (Although they put the vegetables and the meat upside down. Another topic for another column.) You can get a hamburger at Dairy Queen. Hell, you can get a hamburger anywhere.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been really busy, and I haven’t even eaten myself.” I had to settle for a greasy box of chicken and a jalapeno.
I can hear a lot of you readers saying “Shannon, she was working for the church. Give her a break.” But like most stories in life, this one has two sides. A darker side. A sinister side.
As it turns out, the investigation revealed that indeed, her mother brought her a fajita taco at 11:36 a.m. It had meat, guacamole, pico de gallo and a touch of sour cream. She just didn’t think about me as she inhaled it.
Let the record also show that at 6:42 p.m., minutes after she arrived home, I walked into the kitchen and witnessed her spinning her fork in the last bit of spaghetti on a plastic plate. I never even got a bite.
There, folks, is your “sweet little wife”. A woman that would let her husband shrivel up and blow away into the wind from hunger, were it not for his own survival skills… and the chicken place.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Going under…
I hope we didn’t cross paths last week. If we did, let me apologize because I know I wasn’t myself. I was probably a little grumpy, a little short with you, and totally had my mind somewhere else. You see, I had a dentist appointment last Friday.
I know, I know. Everybody gets a little nervous when it comes to going to the dentist. But I had a little extra pressure on me- let me explain.
A few years ago, I had a procedure done where the doctors needed to see inside my stomach. In order to do that, they gave me the gas and put me to sleep. For some reason my wife couldn’t take off work that day, so my sister was nice enough to drive me to the doctor’s office and back.
Once I regained my senses, my sister gave me a very serious look and said “I don’t think it would be a good idea to ever let your wife see you like that.” She said that when I was waking up, and the medicine still had a hold on me, I was “very friendly” with every nurse I could find.
No, I take that back- that’s not what she said at all. She told me that I hit on every female that got close enough to listen to me. And not in that cute, shy, eyelash-batting way, either. She said I was the obnoxious drunk guy at the bar that makes women’s skin crawl as they reach for their can of mace.
Now, you folks know that I’m not like that. For one thing, I’m not the flirty kind of guy to begin with. For another, my wife and all her cronies know everything that happens in this town and the surrounding towns, so I could never get away with it. And don’t even get me started on the whole Facebook networking tattle-tale thing…
Okay, so fast-forward to last week when I found out that a local anesthesia wasn’t going to do the trick- I had to go all the way under again. The first thing I do is see if my sister is available. “Don’t be silly,” my wife said. “I will take you myself.” That forced me to tell her that evidently anesthesia turns me into a broke, pudgier version of Tiger Woods.
And sure enough, when we get to the dentist’s office every girl in there was good looking. And they were all wearing those doctor smocks. Which leads me to confess something here: You know how all women like a man in uniform? Cops, firemen, UPS, etc? Well, for some reason that’s how I am with women in smocks, or scrubs, or whatever you call them. Yes, I know that’s weird. And don’t ask me why, because I know they aren’t exactly form-fitting. Maybe it’s the whole “care-giver” thing that I didn’t get enough of when I was a kid. Who knows? The point is, I like them. And the fact that every lady in the office was wearing them made me even more nervous. I kept telling myself “Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word.”
“Relax, I’ve seen you when you sleep and it’s not a pretty sight,” said my wife. “Trust me, you can flirt all you want. My money says they still send you home with me.”
And she was right. As it turns out, I behaved myself like a gentleman the whole time.
Oh, don’t you worry though. The anesthesia still made me nutty as a Snicker’s bar, and my wife was nice enough to video the evidence for everyone. I’m absolutely sure that some of it will be posted somewhere at some point, but we are currently negotiating the editing process.
You see? I wouldn’t have had to worry about that if my sister had just driven me.
I hope we didn’t cross paths last week. If we did, let me apologize because I know I wasn’t myself. I was probably a little grumpy, a little short with you, and totally had my mind somewhere else. You see, I had a dentist appointment last Friday.
I know, I know. Everybody gets a little nervous when it comes to going to the dentist. But I had a little extra pressure on me- let me explain.
A few years ago, I had a procedure done where the doctors needed to see inside my stomach. In order to do that, they gave me the gas and put me to sleep. For some reason my wife couldn’t take off work that day, so my sister was nice enough to drive me to the doctor’s office and back.
Once I regained my senses, my sister gave me a very serious look and said “I don’t think it would be a good idea to ever let your wife see you like that.” She said that when I was waking up, and the medicine still had a hold on me, I was “very friendly” with every nurse I could find.
No, I take that back- that’s not what she said at all. She told me that I hit on every female that got close enough to listen to me. And not in that cute, shy, eyelash-batting way, either. She said I was the obnoxious drunk guy at the bar that makes women’s skin crawl as they reach for their can of mace.
Now, you folks know that I’m not like that. For one thing, I’m not the flirty kind of guy to begin with. For another, my wife and all her cronies know everything that happens in this town and the surrounding towns, so I could never get away with it. And don’t even get me started on the whole Facebook networking tattle-tale thing…
Okay, so fast-forward to last week when I found out that a local anesthesia wasn’t going to do the trick- I had to go all the way under again. The first thing I do is see if my sister is available. “Don’t be silly,” my wife said. “I will take you myself.” That forced me to tell her that evidently anesthesia turns me into a broke, pudgier version of Tiger Woods.
And sure enough, when we get to the dentist’s office every girl in there was good looking. And they were all wearing those doctor smocks. Which leads me to confess something here: You know how all women like a man in uniform? Cops, firemen, UPS, etc? Well, for some reason that’s how I am with women in smocks, or scrubs, or whatever you call them. Yes, I know that’s weird. And don’t ask me why, because I know they aren’t exactly form-fitting. Maybe it’s the whole “care-giver” thing that I didn’t get enough of when I was a kid. Who knows? The point is, I like them. And the fact that every lady in the office was wearing them made me even more nervous. I kept telling myself “Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word. Don’t say a word.”
“Relax, I’ve seen you when you sleep and it’s not a pretty sight,” said my wife. “Trust me, you can flirt all you want. My money says they still send you home with me.”
And she was right. As it turns out, I behaved myself like a gentleman the whole time.
Oh, don’t you worry though. The anesthesia still made me nutty as a Snicker’s bar, and my wife was nice enough to video the evidence for everyone. I’m absolutely sure that some of it will be posted somewhere at some point, but we are currently negotiating the editing process.
You see? I wouldn’t have had to worry about that if my sister had just driven me.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Running through walls
Some folks are Baptist. Some folks are Catholic. Still others are Methodist. Well, I’m Football. Texas Football Magazine is my Bible. I attend church Saturdays, Sundays, and now Friday nights… again.
This weekend, Minnesota ’s John Randle (from Hearne), Dallas ’ Emmitt Smith, San Francisco ’s Jerry Rice and a few others will be inducted into the Hall of Fame. After that, there will be football of some sort on t.v. every weekend until February 6. Halle-freaking-lujah.
I’ve done a lot of traveling over the past few years. Been to eight different states all over the South, so I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. Tennessee loves their football. Louisiana loves their football, Mississippi and Arkansas feel the same way. I’ve got some family out in South Carolina , and they are huge football fans also. But I’ve got to tell you, what they say about football in Texas is true. There’s nothing quite like it.
I watched Kenny Chesney’s new video, “The Boys of Fall”. For the next two hours, I believe I could have ran through a wall. The video did a great job of talking about locker room smells, the smell of fresh cut grass, walking through the high school halls wearing your jerseys on game days, etc.
When I watched the video and heard the song I wasn’t thinking about my own high school playing days because, well, the water boys got about as much playing time as I did. I didn’t even like football when I was that age.
I could, however, close my eyes and remember my nephew’s ten-catch game in the playoffs a few years back. I could remember when their playoff run finally came to an end, the players were openly crying on the field and their fathers were hugging them and shedding the same tears.
I could close my eyes and remember former Hearne coach Craig Slaughter running and jumping down the sideline like a kid, trying to keep pace with Ken Dunn or Montre Webber as they scored another touchdown. I could also close my eyes and see the sea of red that is the stands at a Bremond football game.
In the video, New Orleans Saints head coach Sean Payton told a group of high school players that people live vicariously through them. And God, was he right.
I’ve never, ever been more proud of my nine year old son than when he takes his helmet off of his sweaty little head after running hard in practice, or when he accidentally finds himself in the middle of a tackle and can’t wait to make sure I saw him.
Look, he weighs 50 lbs. and has the speed of cold syrup, so I know he will likely never be Colt McCoy or Drew Brees. And I couldn’t care less. In my eyes, he’s a Hall of Famer.
And the lessons that he and other little boys are learning when they play sports- hard work, responsibility, the meaning of the word team, etc.- you just can’t learn anywhere else. That’s why it amazes me when people- especially parents- tell me they aren’t sports fans. It’s such a great metaphore and teaching tool for life.
So if you ever played a little high school football, enjoy the game now, or are a woman with a son that plays, you have to watch this video. Go to YouTube, go to ESPN.com, go wherever you have to go. Just watch it.
And just try not to run through a wall.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Some folks are Baptist. Some folks are Catholic. Still others are Methodist. Well, I’m Football. Texas Football Magazine is my Bible. I attend church Saturdays, Sundays, and now Friday nights… again.
This weekend, Minnesota ’s John Randle (from Hearne), Dallas ’ Emmitt Smith, San Francisco ’s Jerry Rice and a few others will be inducted into the Hall of Fame. After that, there will be football of some sort on t.v. every weekend until February 6. Halle-freaking-lujah.
I’ve done a lot of traveling over the past few years. Been to eight different states all over the South, so I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. Tennessee loves their football. Louisiana loves their football, Mississippi and Arkansas feel the same way. I’ve got some family out in South Carolina , and they are huge football fans also. But I’ve got to tell you, what they say about football in Texas is true. There’s nothing quite like it.
I watched Kenny Chesney’s new video, “The Boys of Fall”. For the next two hours, I believe I could have ran through a wall. The video did a great job of talking about locker room smells, the smell of fresh cut grass, walking through the high school halls wearing your jerseys on game days, etc.
When I watched the video and heard the song I wasn’t thinking about my own high school playing days because, well, the water boys got about as much playing time as I did. I didn’t even like football when I was that age.
I could, however, close my eyes and remember my nephew’s ten-catch game in the playoffs a few years back. I could remember when their playoff run finally came to an end, the players were openly crying on the field and their fathers were hugging them and shedding the same tears.
I could close my eyes and remember former Hearne coach Craig Slaughter running and jumping down the sideline like a kid, trying to keep pace with Ken Dunn or Montre Webber as they scored another touchdown. I could also close my eyes and see the sea of red that is the stands at a Bremond football game.
In the video, New Orleans Saints head coach Sean Payton told a group of high school players that people live vicariously through them. And God, was he right.
I’ve never, ever been more proud of my nine year old son than when he takes his helmet off of his sweaty little head after running hard in practice, or when he accidentally finds himself in the middle of a tackle and can’t wait to make sure I saw him.
Look, he weighs 50 lbs. and has the speed of cold syrup, so I know he will likely never be Colt McCoy or Drew Brees. And I couldn’t care less. In my eyes, he’s a Hall of Famer.
And the lessons that he and other little boys are learning when they play sports- hard work, responsibility, the meaning of the word team, etc.- you just can’t learn anywhere else. That’s why it amazes me when people- especially parents- tell me they aren’t sports fans. It’s such a great metaphore and teaching tool for life.
So if you ever played a little high school football, enjoy the game now, or are a woman with a son that plays, you have to watch this video. Go to YouTube, go to ESPN.com, go wherever you have to go. Just watch it.
And just try not to run through a wall.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Just venting
I haven’t vented here in a long time. My wife told me that I sounded too grumpy a while back, so I’ve tried to sound more friendly lately. Well I give up. I can’t do it anymore. I think that trying to be friendly is unhealthy for me. I’ve been smiling a lot more lately, but the heartburn has been through the roof. So let’s look at a few things that have my blood pressure up this week.
First of all, I’m ready for school to start again. My kids are eating everything in the house that isn’t nailed down, and they play on the computer way too much. My youngest daughter can rattle off her password for Millsbury.com that is 743 characters long, but she couldn’t tell you how many planets we have in the solar system if a bowl of ice cream depended on it. Between the vacations, the food, and the electric bill I’m going to have to get a fourth job. Speaking of that…
Another thing that I’m not crazy about is President Obama extending the unemployment benefits for another six months. I just can’t imagine how someone could believe that’s a good idea.
The other day I was watching ESPN highlights of the Tour de France. Bicycle Nerd #1 was leading the race when his chain fell off his bike. Bicycle Nerd #2 passed him up and won the stage. Well, later that day Bicycle Nerd #2 got hammered by the press and Bicycle Nerd #1 for dirty racing. It seems he was supposed to stop his bike and wait on Bicycle Nerd #1 to get his chain back on.
And I remember thinking to myself, “That’s why America kicks everyone’s butt all the time- because we don’t go around trying to make sure everything is fair.” If you fall down in this country you had better get up quickly or you’ll have foot marks on your back. The next guy in line wants to be successful even more than you do.
Of course I then turned the channel from ESPN to CNN, and saw that the unemployment benefits had been extended and my whole theory went out the window. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Welfare, government handouts, and most charity makes otherwise good people lazy. It’s just human nature.
I believe if you want to make this country’s economy stronger, instead of extending free money you need to shorten the amount of time you live off the government. Force people to get out and get a job or starve. If one job isn’t enough to pay the bills, work two jobs. It won’t kill you, I promise. Allow people to live in government housing for one year, then raise the rent to a normal price and have that extra money go back to the government. That’s plenty of time for them to find a decent paying job. I guarantee that you can look at almost any government housing complex in America and you will find 20 and 30 year-old people that have never lived anywhere else and have never worked a day in their lives. That’s ridiculous.
And finally, let’s talk about the thing that has me upset the most this week. Will somebody out there please, please, please write in, call, or email me the reason that I can’t buy a damn hamburger anymore without the meat being served on top of the vegetables? It’s a full-blown epedimic.
Everybody knows that since the beginning of time whenever you eat a burger the meat goes on bottom, then the cheese, then the vegetables. But for the last year or so, eight out of every ten times I order a burger the vegetables are on bottom for some reason. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m sure there is a reason for it (Heat rises? Easier stacking?) but I don’t like it a bit. And you can’t just flip it over and eat it, because then the buns are upside down. Nope, you have to spend ten minutes deconstructing the whole thing, then building it back up the right way. Hell, with the amount of work involved they should be paying me to eat it.
Come to think of it, maybe that could be my fourth job.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
I haven’t vented here in a long time. My wife told me that I sounded too grumpy a while back, so I’ve tried to sound more friendly lately. Well I give up. I can’t do it anymore. I think that trying to be friendly is unhealthy for me. I’ve been smiling a lot more lately, but the heartburn has been through the roof. So let’s look at a few things that have my blood pressure up this week.
First of all, I’m ready for school to start again. My kids are eating everything in the house that isn’t nailed down, and they play on the computer way too much. My youngest daughter can rattle off her password for Millsbury.com that is 743 characters long, but she couldn’t tell you how many planets we have in the solar system if a bowl of ice cream depended on it. Between the vacations, the food, and the electric bill I’m going to have to get a fourth job. Speaking of that…
Another thing that I’m not crazy about is President Obama extending the unemployment benefits for another six months. I just can’t imagine how someone could believe that’s a good idea.
The other day I was watching ESPN highlights of the Tour de France. Bicycle Nerd #1 was leading the race when his chain fell off his bike. Bicycle Nerd #2 passed him up and won the stage. Well, later that day Bicycle Nerd #2 got hammered by the press and Bicycle Nerd #1 for dirty racing. It seems he was supposed to stop his bike and wait on Bicycle Nerd #1 to get his chain back on.
And I remember thinking to myself, “That’s why America kicks everyone’s butt all the time- because we don’t go around trying to make sure everything is fair.” If you fall down in this country you had better get up quickly or you’ll have foot marks on your back. The next guy in line wants to be successful even more than you do.
Of course I then turned the channel from ESPN to CNN, and saw that the unemployment benefits had been extended and my whole theory went out the window. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Welfare, government handouts, and most charity makes otherwise good people lazy. It’s just human nature.
I believe if you want to make this country’s economy stronger, instead of extending free money you need to shorten the amount of time you live off the government. Force people to get out and get a job or starve. If one job isn’t enough to pay the bills, work two jobs. It won’t kill you, I promise. Allow people to live in government housing for one year, then raise the rent to a normal price and have that extra money go back to the government. That’s plenty of time for them to find a decent paying job. I guarantee that you can look at almost any government housing complex in America and you will find 20 and 30 year-old people that have never lived anywhere else and have never worked a day in their lives. That’s ridiculous.
And finally, let’s talk about the thing that has me upset the most this week. Will somebody out there please, please, please write in, call, or email me the reason that I can’t buy a damn hamburger anymore without the meat being served on top of the vegetables? It’s a full-blown epedimic.
Everybody knows that since the beginning of time whenever you eat a burger the meat goes on bottom, then the cheese, then the vegetables. But for the last year or so, eight out of every ten times I order a burger the vegetables are on bottom for some reason. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m sure there is a reason for it (Heat rises? Easier stacking?) but I don’t like it a bit. And you can’t just flip it over and eat it, because then the buns are upside down. Nope, you have to spend ten minutes deconstructing the whole thing, then building it back up the right way. Hell, with the amount of work involved they should be paying me to eat it.
Come to think of it, maybe that could be my fourth job.
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Thursday, July 15, 2010
Hard to compete with that…
Hello from Surfside, Texas . We are here on vacation this week, which implies that I will be doing a lot of relaxing and having fun. Haha. In the words of the great Lee Corso, “Not so fast my friend.”
We are renting a different beach house this year than we usually do, and it has one television and no ESPN. And ten minutes into swimming, my oldest daughter was stung by a jellyfish. So yeah, it might be a long week.
Tell you what, though. It is kinda nice to sit on the beach and just stare at nothing for a while. I was in the middle of doing that earlier when I started thinking about my nephew and his new bride, who are celebrating their honeymoon on another beach a few thousand miles away right now.
It was a beautiful wedding, with everything going without a hitch. And it lasted about twenty minutes, which is unheard of these days. Every other wedding I’ve been to lately is an all day event.
My nephew cried as the bride’s father walked her down the isle. I’m sure his buddies will poke him in the ribs a little for that, but I won’t. I did the same thing thirteen years ago at my own wedding. You’ve somehow convinced the girl of your dreams to spend the rest of her life with you- if that doesn’t make you a little emotional, something is wrong.
I’ll tell you what I will have a few words with him about, though. In fact, I’m thinking of putting a bag of sugar in his gas tank the next time I see him. He wrote a song for their first dance at the reception. It detailed their time together, from when they first met all the way into the future when they have children. It was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever witnessed, and every married man there wanted to beat him with a tube sock full of batteries.
Have you any idea what kind of pressure that put the rest of us married guys under? We can’t compete with that. Every wife in there turned to their husbands and scolded them for never writing a song about them. As a married man, how was I supposed to follow that up? “Um, baby, want another jello shot? This one’s blue.”
Luckily, we had this vacation planned right after the wedding. So while everyone else’s wife had to go back to work this week, my wife gets to sit on the beach and watch me run into the ocean wearing a tiny speedo. That outta make her fall in love with me all over again. Heck, she might even write a song about me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Hello from Surfside, Texas . We are here on vacation this week, which implies that I will be doing a lot of relaxing and having fun. Haha. In the words of the great Lee Corso, “Not so fast my friend.”
We are renting a different beach house this year than we usually do, and it has one television and no ESPN. And ten minutes into swimming, my oldest daughter was stung by a jellyfish. So yeah, it might be a long week.
Tell you what, though. It is kinda nice to sit on the beach and just stare at nothing for a while. I was in the middle of doing that earlier when I started thinking about my nephew and his new bride, who are celebrating their honeymoon on another beach a few thousand miles away right now.
It was a beautiful wedding, with everything going without a hitch. And it lasted about twenty minutes, which is unheard of these days. Every other wedding I’ve been to lately is an all day event.
My nephew cried as the bride’s father walked her down the isle. I’m sure his buddies will poke him in the ribs a little for that, but I won’t. I did the same thing thirteen years ago at my own wedding. You’ve somehow convinced the girl of your dreams to spend the rest of her life with you- if that doesn’t make you a little emotional, something is wrong.
I’ll tell you what I will have a few words with him about, though. In fact, I’m thinking of putting a bag of sugar in his gas tank the next time I see him. He wrote a song for their first dance at the reception. It detailed their time together, from when they first met all the way into the future when they have children. It was one of the most romantic things I’ve ever witnessed, and every married man there wanted to beat him with a tube sock full of batteries.
Have you any idea what kind of pressure that put the rest of us married guys under? We can’t compete with that. Every wife in there turned to their husbands and scolded them for never writing a song about them. As a married man, how was I supposed to follow that up? “Um, baby, want another jello shot? This one’s blue.”
Luckily, we had this vacation planned right after the wedding. So while everyone else’s wife had to go back to work this week, my wife gets to sit on the beach and watch me run into the ocean wearing a tiny speedo. That outta make her fall in love with me all over again. Heck, she might even write a song about me.
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
And the survey says…
My wife and I were having a discussion the other day. Well, I’m not sure “discussion” is the word to use. It was one of those talks that married people have where you make sure and chuckle after everything you say, just so it won’t turn into a real argument.
Anyway, during the “discussion” she let me know that I was a jerk- only she didn’t say jerk. She used another word for jerk that would never make the paper. It has seven letters, and begins with the letter ‘A’. I’m sure if you use your imagination you can come up with it. But for this column, we’ll use the word jerk.
I disagreed with her, of course. I know I used to be an as-, um, jerk. But I honestly don’t think I am anymore. Maybe it’s being a father, maybe it’s conversations I’ve had with people that I respect. It could be that I’ve just grown older and wiser. Either way, I think I’ve changed a good bit in the last few years.
“Tell you what,” I told her. “Here’s my phone. Let’s call ten people from my contact list that know me well, and we’ll just see how many people think I’m really a jerk.”
She didn’t just run across the room. She did three somersaults and a double back flip on the way. Come to think of it, maybe that was a bad omen for me.
We tried calling one of my nieces, but couldn’t get hold of her. Then we called my boss. The first thing I did was let him know that he was on speaker (always a good idea), then I filled him in on what my wife and I were doing. After what seemed like an hour he finally sided with me- he didn’t think that I was a jerk the majority of the time.
We then called my old boss here at the paper. Again, he took his time thinking about it, but in the end he also took my side and I led two to zip. Then the wheels fell off.
One of my closest friends in the world agreed with my wife. “I’m sorry Shannon ,” he told me. “But I’m a Christian man, and I have church tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can go with a clear conscience if I lie today.”
I told my wife that he shouldn’t really count, because he was letting religion cloud his thinking. I hate when people do that.
“Well, let’s call your sister then,” she said. That didn’t turn out so well. She also agreed with my wife, and it didn’t take her near as long to think about it as the first three people.
Told my wife that her vote shouldn’t count, either. She didn’t really know me that well anymore.
“She’s your sister!” my wife hollered. “I think she knows you pretty well.” Yeah, but we hardly see each other anymore. I’m a different guy now. Anyway, we were tied 2-2 when my wife’s friend Valerie’s name popped up on the screen. Oh Hell.
“Valerie,” my wife told her. “Shannon and I are doing a survey, and we want to know if you think he’s a jer-“
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to answer right now,” I told her. “Take your ti-“
“Yes.”
“Look,” I pleaded, “Think about it for an hour or so, and call us back in a little whil-“
“Yes.”
And that’s pretty much how it went from there. Another one of her friends said I was a jerk. Another one of my friends said I was a jerk. Hell, before long we had people calling the house asking to vote.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I finally threw in the towel. Imagine being made to watch a Nancy Grace marathon with bamboo sticks underneath your fingernails- that’s how painful it was towards the end.
That’s okay though. This weekend, I think we’ll call ten people from my wife’s phone and see who all thinks she is a, um, “jerk”. Any volunteers?
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
My wife and I were having a discussion the other day. Well, I’m not sure “discussion” is the word to use. It was one of those talks that married people have where you make sure and chuckle after everything you say, just so it won’t turn into a real argument.
Anyway, during the “discussion” she let me know that I was a jerk- only she didn’t say jerk. She used another word for jerk that would never make the paper. It has seven letters, and begins with the letter ‘A’. I’m sure if you use your imagination you can come up with it. But for this column, we’ll use the word jerk.
I disagreed with her, of course. I know I used to be an as-, um, jerk. But I honestly don’t think I am anymore. Maybe it’s being a father, maybe it’s conversations I’ve had with people that I respect. It could be that I’ve just grown older and wiser. Either way, I think I’ve changed a good bit in the last few years.
“Tell you what,” I told her. “Here’s my phone. Let’s call ten people from my contact list that know me well, and we’ll just see how many people think I’m really a jerk.”
She didn’t just run across the room. She did three somersaults and a double back flip on the way. Come to think of it, maybe that was a bad omen for me.
We tried calling one of my nieces, but couldn’t get hold of her. Then we called my boss. The first thing I did was let him know that he was on speaker (always a good idea), then I filled him in on what my wife and I were doing. After what seemed like an hour he finally sided with me- he didn’t think that I was a jerk the majority of the time.
We then called my old boss here at the paper. Again, he took his time thinking about it, but in the end he also took my side and I led two to zip. Then the wheels fell off.
One of my closest friends in the world agreed with my wife. “I’m sorry Shannon ,” he told me. “But I’m a Christian man, and I have church tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can go with a clear conscience if I lie today.”
I told my wife that he shouldn’t really count, because he was letting religion cloud his thinking. I hate when people do that.
“Well, let’s call your sister then,” she said. That didn’t turn out so well. She also agreed with my wife, and it didn’t take her near as long to think about it as the first three people.
Told my wife that her vote shouldn’t count, either. She didn’t really know me that well anymore.
“She’s your sister!” my wife hollered. “I think she knows you pretty well.” Yeah, but we hardly see each other anymore. I’m a different guy now. Anyway, we were tied 2-2 when my wife’s friend Valerie’s name popped up on the screen. Oh Hell.
“Valerie,” my wife told her. “Shannon and I are doing a survey, and we want to know if you think he’s a jer-“
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to answer right now,” I told her. “Take your ti-“
“Yes.”
“Look,” I pleaded, “Think about it for an hour or so, and call us back in a little whil-“
“Yes.”
And that’s pretty much how it went from there. Another one of her friends said I was a jerk. Another one of my friends said I was a jerk. Hell, before long we had people calling the house asking to vote.
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I finally threw in the towel. Imagine being made to watch a Nancy Grace marathon with bamboo sticks underneath your fingernails- that’s how painful it was towards the end.
That’s okay though. This weekend, I think we’ll call ten people from my wife’s phone and see who all thinks she is a, um, “jerk”. Any volunteers?
Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to http://robconews.com/ or http://shannonscasta.blogspot.com/ and leave a comment or suggestion.
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