A Giant Fork in the Road

Imagine: You’re traveling down the road, speeding right along, and knowing exactly where you’re heading. Life is good – you’ve got a map, you’ve got a plan, and nothing is going to stop you from reaching your final destination. Nothing.

Then out of nowhere a deer jumps in front of you, forcing you to quickly change directions. Or one of those “Caution: Falling Rocks” that they always warn you about on those cute yellow signs actually does fall, smack on top of your car. Oops. Or maybe aliens come down to Earth, vaporize the highway in front of you, beam you onto their ship, and then perform all sorts of indecent experiments on your rectal area.

You’re stunned. You’re amazed. You feel more than a little bit violated.

But most of all, your trip towards the finish line is interrupted. Oh, you’ll get there eventually – you’ve promised yourself that. But for now, other priorities (taking a detour, picking up rocks, getting away from Elvis and his E.T. buddies) have to come first.

This, in a strange analogy way, is what The Lovely Mrs. G. and I are currently going through.

I don’t want to go into too much detail yet of what happened to throw us off track, but suffice to say it’s enough to keep us from pursuing our plans of moving to Florida for at least another year. Our plan was to pack it in and head to Orlando after I graduate next August, where I’d land a (hopefully) high-paying cushy job and we’d be able to buy a house with a swimming pool, a fenced yard for the dog we’d get, a large room for all my Disney crap, and nice sunsets 360 days a year. (I’ll allow for rain on 5 occasions. Hey, it’s my dream.)

Now it looks like we’ll remain in Iowa (shudder) until somewhere around May 2008. Instead of counting down the remaining 276 days until we can move, our countdown clock is now reset to somewhere around 575.

So here we are, and here we’ll stay for a little bit longer than we hoped. It stinks, but it’ll be okay.

Mrs. G. and I are both a little disappointed about the delay – okay, a lot disappointed – but when life deals you a strange hand, you’ve got to play the cards you’ve got, right? (See? Another strange analogy.) There’s not much we can do about it, so we may as well buck up and keep dreaming for a while more.

On the bright side, it’ll give us time to fix up the house a little bit more before selling it, and moving in May is probably going to be more comfortable than moving in August. And I may be able to wrap up my B.A. in that timeframe, so we can move with two degrees under my belt.

We’re delayed, but we’re not giving up our plans. We’ll just have to travel a little bit longer than expected.

Besides – it’ll give me another 19 months to whine about Iowans.

Happy Halloween 2006

So here it is – Halloween 2006. Let’s kick it off this way, shall we?

My friend Jason has an axe
Blood and gore and guts.
Gave my neighbor 40 whacks
Blood and gore and guts.
With a chop chop here
And a chop chop there.
Here a chop, there a chop,
Everywhere a chop chop.
My friend Jason has an axe
Blood and gore and guts.

And that, my little ghosts and goblins, is why you don’t hear more Halloween songs. Because every time you try singing a wonderful little ditty like this, your Mom is going to yell at you and tell you to quit being vulgar.

Regardless, there are some truly good Halloween songs out there. Here’s my list:

The Official Thomas J. Gressel List of Top Halloween Songs of All Time

10. All You Zombies – The Hooters. Just because it’s from the 80’s and all that. Plus it’s got zombies in it - that's an added bonus you don't get in today's one hit wonders.

9. Monster Mash – It was a graveyard smash, you know. It was also a really obnoxious song, but it probably deserves a place on this list, since I used to play it over and over and over when I was 10.

8. The Time Warp – Okay, technically The Rocky Horror Picture Show has little to do with Tricks or Treats, but since I used to go see this midnight masterpiece every Halloween, it only seemed appropriate.

7. Spooky – Atlantic Rhythm Section. There’s not much scary about this song, unless you were to imagine that the chick the singer is chasing was to suddenly reach up and pull out his beating heart. Now that’s love.

6. Running with the Devil – Van Halen. Rumor has it that VH version 1.0 (with Diamond Dave) is getting back together for a tour. I’d pay to see that, just to see how a bunch of over the hill rockers are holding up. From the pictures of Eddie Van Halen floating around out there, though, I’d have to say that their aging hasn’t exactly been graceful.

5. Highway to Hell – AC/DC. I really have the feeling that this song is more about partying your way into oblivion and not celebrating a pagan holiday by knocking on doors and begging for Milky Ways, but it’s the closest thing I could come up with that works for All Hallows Eve and a bad night on the Interstate.

4. Papazao – Kevin Federline. Is there really anything scarier than this dumb bastard trying to sing?

3. Psycho Killer – The Talking Heads. If you want to see the coolest rendition of this song ever, be sure to check out the first five minutes of the TH movie “Stop Making Sense.” You’ll see what I mean.

2. Thriller – Michael Jackson. Now, I know that a lot of people make fun of Mr. Oddball – myself included – but you’ve got to think back to 1985, when this damn song was all the rage. I mean, you couldn’t swing a rotten pumpkin without having to hear this song, watch it’s “Making of the Video” special for the umpteenth time, or admire some dumb kid trying to dance like Mike. Still, it was a moment in Pop Culture History that will forever remain in my memory, so it deserves a spot on the list. Yellow eyes and all.

And now – the Number One Halloween song of all time? Why, that has to be...

1. Grim Grinning Ghosts – Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion.

When the crypt doors creek and the tombstones quake
Spooks come out for a swinging wake
Happy haunts materialize
And begin to vocalize
Grim Grinning Ghosts come out to socialize.

Does it get any better than this? I don’t think so. And I’m sure I can find 999 other...spirited people...who agree with me.

So there you go. Now hurry back, and don’t forget to bring your death certificate.

Candy is Dandy!

Believe it or not, today is National Candy Corn Day. Seriously.

They say that more than 9 billion of those tri-colored sugar bombs will be sold this year – which is more than 35 million pounds, or about what you’d gain if you tried to polish off that many candy corns. (Unless your heart explodes from all the sugar first.)

The Lovely Mrs. G and I had a wonderful conversation last night about the joys of candy corn. And no – it wasn’t just because we had nothing better to say to each other. We both agreed that candy corn is the best, under the following conditions: 1) It’s served up slightly stale (so that the sugar gets crunchy. Try it!), 2) It’s served up only in the fall, and 3) You brush your teeth immediately afterwards.

Candy corn is a good Halloween tradition, but my all-time favorite will forever be the Halloween Candy Smell. You know the one – that smell of the mix of different candies, gum, licorice, and other assorted good-tasting-but-bad-for-you stuff, all conveniently sitting in a plastic orange pumpkin. Ahhh – there’s nothing else quite like it.

I miss having an opportunity to enjoy that candy smell. If there was a way I could go Trick-Or-Treating and score some good candy mix, I’d probably do it, just for the aroma. You can’t get it by buying a bag of Fun Size Snickers or even a bag of candy corn – it’s got to be that melded conglomeration of different Halloween candies.

It’s a shame that they can’t bottle that smell.

So Happy Halloween, kiddies. Look both ways before crossing the street, don’t buy any Earl Maimway costumes (“not for blind kids”), and please – send me some candy corn, will you?

I won’t even make you smell my feet.

All Your Base Are Belong To...Girl Scouts and Roller Coasters?

Normally I totally disregard my spam e-mail. I get far too much of it, (up to 80 a day) and at this point if I don’t recognize the sender, it’s off to the trash box it goes.

But this one caught my eye.

Do you know how these spammer bastards like to add extra words to the bottom of their ads, in an attempt to fool the anti-spam filters? Usually it’s just a bunch of gobbledygook. But this one was different.

* * * * * *

Indeed, another optimal power drill hardly pours freezing cold water on another tuba player. A girl scout buys an expensive gift for an earring. Any roller coaster can have a change of heart about a cargo bay about a briar patch, but it takes a real paycheck to wisely graduate from the seldom precise fighter pilot.

A fractured briar patch beams with joy, and another knowingly statesmanlike tomato hesitates; however, the underhandedly elusive photon makes love to the sheriff about a pork chop. The consultants recommend homogenized transitional flexibility. results at him. - Marvin! –

Are you thought if it would simply didn’t large circular wall a fairly can come out a voice the bowels of the one being the worked out from the door closed had just some words. - I mean, - he hoped to be this time across he thought Galactic on shared see the history didn’t I? - said Zaphod. - pronounced stoutness about point of doubt came she assure you better in number rather.

You really can't fail with facilitating organizational alignment.

* * * * * *

Now, I recognize Zaphod and Marvin from the Hitchhiker’s Guide books. But I’ve never met a Girl Scout who buy expensive gifts for an earring. And I’ve never known a roller coaster to have a change of heart about a briar patch, unless you’re talking about a horrific accident on Splash Mountain.

So the spammer bastard gets an A for creativity, a C- for grammar and punctuation, a B for pop culture references, and an F for sending it to me in the first place.

"Fun" Starts with "F - U"

Good Lord. Is this really what we as a society are doing to today’s kids?

* * * * *
Massachusetts Elementary School Bans Tag

ATTLEBORO, Mass. - Tag, you're out! Officials at an elementary school south of Boston have banned kids from playing tag, touch football and any other unsupervised chase game during recess for fear they'll get hurt and hold the school liable.

Recess is "a time when accidents can happen," said Willett Elementary School Principal Gaylene Heppe, who approved the ban.

Elementary schools in Cheyenne, Wyo., and Spokane, Wash., also recently banned tag during recess. A suburban Charleston, S.C., school outlawed all unsupervised contact sports.

"I think that it's unfortunate that kids' lives are micromanaged and there are social skills they'll never develop on their own," said Debbie Laferriere, who has two children at Willett, about 40 miles south of Boston. "Playing tag is just part of being a kid."

Another Willett parent, Celeste D'Elia, said her son feels safer because of the rule. "I've witnessed enough near collisions," she said.

* * * * *

Now, tell me. What’s the fun of having recess if you can’t play a little bit of harmless tag? Sure, a kid may trip and skin their knee every once in a while, but that’s what kids do. You put some Bactine on it, give them a Spiderman Band-Aid, and you move on.

When I was a kid we played tag for HOURS. We played every variation you could think of – freeze tag, TV tag, movie tag, “sing a song the entire time you’re it” tag, you name it. It was great fun, and guess what – I’m still alive.

I can imagine the kids at this school, enjoying their permitted fun recess activities: Breathing (not for the asthmatic kids, however), looking around (but please don’t stare into the sun), and sitting around, doin’ nuffin. But have a good time, dammit!

They’ve already taken out all of the swings, see-saws, and other dangerous implements of destruction from the playgrounds. What’s next?

* Why, you might trip when jumping rope, so that’s out.
* You might accidentally swallow a jack.
* Don’t play in the wooden bark padding – you might get a sliver.
* Sandboxes only lead to germs.
* Hopscotch mocks one-legged children.
* Trading baseball cards can lead to vicious paper cuts.
* What if you play Hide and Seek, and forget to find one player? He may never be seen again!
* You might taunt Happy Fun Ball and unleash Hell. (Sorry – old SNL reference.)

Maybe they should allow the kids to play a nice, safe hand of Texas Hold ‘Em. At least that’ll give them good skills for adulthood and won’t lead to any playground collisions. (Unless you owe money to the 5th grade loan shark, that is.) Or knowing how things are going in the world today, they could probably start giving them some military combat training, just to give them a jump start for when they’re drafted in 10 years.

Is it any wonder why kids today are all lard-butts? We don’t let them play because they might get a boo-boo and Mom and Dad’s big bad lawyer will have to sue the pants off of the school. So instead we plunk them down in front of a nice, safe video game or TV and slowly turn their minds into mush while their muscles atrophy. Great times all around.

I really don’t get this policy. And I’d like to tag the principal “it” and make her stand there frozen, singing TV show theme songs, until she pulls her head out of her butt.

They should all be ashamed. And then forced to sit in the corner with a dunce cap on. And no dessert after dinner for two weeks.

That’ll show them.

Failure to Keep Your Lunch Down

The Time: This past Sunday afternoon, approximately 4:00 PM CDT.

The Place: "Casa Del Gressel"

The Event: The Lovely Mrs. G. and I sit down to watch the DVD of “Failure to Launch”, a tale of romantic comedy hijinks starring the masculinely hunky (and I mean that in a purely hetero way) Matthew McConaughey and the vivaciously hot Sarah Jessica Parker.

The Warning: Before the movie started, up popped one of those Motion Picture Association of America screens, informing us that the following movie was rated PG-13 by the MPAA for Language, Sexual Content, and... Partial Nudity.

Wish #1 (from Mrs. G.): “Whoo-hoo! Partial nudity! I hope it’s Matthew McConaughey! "

Wish #2 (from yours truly): “Whoo-hoo! Partial nudity! I hope it’s Sarah Jessica Parker!"

The Ugly Truth: Turns out it was Terry Bradshaw’s backside.

Revulsion #1 (Mrs. G’s): “WHAT? THAT’S IT? Aw, what a rip off!!”

Revulsion #2 (Mine, as I consider bleaching my eyes to burn out the image of Terry’s old saggy ass): “Oh, I didn’t need to see that!”

Moral of the Story: Be careful when you choose to mock the warning signs. You might get it in ways you’d rather not remember.

Playing Dressup

My employer recently instilled a dress code. Effective today, no more t-shirts, no jeans, no sweatshirts, no hats, and about a dozen other “nos”.

Now, this may not seem like a big deal (and really – it shouldn’t be), but this company was founded as a “blue jeans, down to earth” place 21 years ago. So for 21 years people have become mighty accustomed to dressing like bums.

Speaking of which, rumor has it that this dress code was put into place by our new CEO, who visited a few weeks back. He allegedly told his V.P.s that we “looked like a bunch of vagabonds.” Nice, no? Hence, the dress code.

I do see his point, though. People were really starting to push the whole “casual workplace” theory to the edge this past summer. It was increasingly common to walk down the hall and see Budweiser t-shirts, flip-flops, bedroom slippers, midriff-bearing tanks (fortunately only on the girls), and shorty shorts (which unfortunately were on some of the guys, too.) So maybe it was time that we clean up our act.

So here I am today, wearing my nicely ironed Mickey Mouse oxford (we can’t be serious all the time, can we?) and a pair of black dress pants, which I just soiled by crawling around on the dirty floor hooking up computer cables. I don’t work any harder or faster or more efficiently when I’m wearing the Corporate Monkey Suit, but if that’s what it takes to make people happy, then so be it.

Although I still don’t really get what the point is – dressing up for customers who aren’t allowed in the building, vendors we never see, and executives who are 1,800 miles away? Who exactly are we trying to impress?

I used to have a suit-and-tie job. I didn’t mind dressing up, although usually by noon my tie was off and stuffed in my desk drawer. And up until coming here I never really had a job that was 24/7 casual. So I really have no room to complain, now do I? (The Lovely Mrs. G. says "No, you don't - now quit whining, you big baby, and iron your shirts like a good boy".)

Oh, well. At least they don’t make us wear a uniform. Or 15 pieces of flair. Or a smock that says ‘HOW CAN I HELP YOU?’ on the back.

See? It could be worse.

Fall Falls Fast Around Here

For as long as I’ve known my friend Gary (14+ years), he has always said that fall was his favorite season of the year. But that’s easy for him to say; Gary lives in Oregon, where things such as “fall” exist.

Not in Iowa. Our “fall” this year lasted exactly 4 days.

Don’t believe me? Let me elaborate.

Saturday, Oct 7. It was sunny, beautiful, 85 degrees out. I washed my convertible, put the top down, and the Lovely Mrs. G. and I enjoyed the last gasp of summer.

Sunday, Oct 8. Fall day 1. A slow, steady, cold rain.

Monday, Oct 9. Fall day 2. A cool, crisp day. Perfect for hayrides or raking leaves.

Tuesday, Oct 10. Fall day 3. Windy, cool, but occasionally sunny. Why, if you were to visit a pumpkin farm or have a craving to drink apple cider, this would be the day!

Wednesday, Oct 11. Fall day 4. Partly cloudy, but a little chilly outside. You’d best bundle up as you play touch football and enjoy one last weenie roast around the barbeque!

Thursday, Oct 12. 5:30 AM. I walk outside and find SNOW on my car.

Snow. In October. 10 weeks before the official start of winter. Seriously.

Truth be told, it wasn’t much snow – just a dusting - but it was enough of a warning to all of us here in the Midwest that old man winter is packing his bags and is about to drop in on us, for what looks to be an extended stay.

So we’ll see how it goes. After all, this is our last winter of having to deal with this crap (hopefully), so I may as well enjoy it while I can, right?

Okay, maybe “enjoy” isn’t the right word. “Bitch about it” is probably more apt.

Either way, I’ll be thinking happy thoughts of Spring – my favorite season.

Love Thy Neighbor? I Don't Think So

I’ve been trying lately to be nicer to people. It sounds simple enough, but sometimes the human race really pisses me off. Overall though I think I’ve been doing a better job of at least trying to be more polite to society and the community as a whole. Hey, I’m trying...

But there’s one person in this world who has used up my RDA of kindheartedness.

His name is...well, his name is irrelevant, because he will forever be known in the Gressel household as Bubba Gump.

Bubba and his Missus Bubba live across the street from us. He’s retired, but I’ve always been left with the impression that he’s not retired by choice.

This is the same Bubba who leaves his Christmas decorations up until May 1st every year. Believe me – it’s really, really sad to see a plastic Santa in his yard when it’s 90 degrees out.

This is the same Bubba who mows his lawn at 10:00 PM, using his jerry-rigged, semi-homemade, louder-than-hell lawn mower. The only nice part of this is that he’ll only mow once a month, so while the grass may be up to his knees, we don’t have to hear it that often.

This is the same Bubba whose idea of obedience training for his Jack Russell terrier is to open the sliding door and yell "Shut up!" after the poor thing has been barking for hours on end.

This is the same Bubba who has 6 vehicles, including a motor home, yet only 2 of them actually run for sure (and one of them just barely). He’s got crap cars parked up and down the street, a Winnebego parked on his lawn that didn’t move this year, and a piece of shit Toyota that he has to overcrank the accelerator on every morning to start.

So as you can tell, Bubba is a real winner.
But last night he punched my last button.
And I went off.

It was 10:30 PM, and Bubba is in his garage, with the garage door wide open. And he’s running a power saw.

WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

This being Bubba, it’s not a fine-tuned piece of machinery. Nope – it’s noisy, grinding, and sounds like the blade hasn’t been sharpened since the Reagan administration.

WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I listened to this for a long time, hoping that he’d have even an ounce of decency and consideration for his neighbors, as the sound of his rusty saw echoed throughout the neighborhood.

Nope. They say you need to have an IQ higher than a pot holder to have a sense of moral respect for others. Obviously Bubba gets an F- in this category, too.

WREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

I finally had enough. I pulled on my sweatshirt and stormed out the front door for a little man-to-imbecile chat.

I marched across the street, where Bubba was once again sawing away at something. I yell “Hey!”, but he can’t hear me over the noise. So I stand there in his driveway, waiting for him to shut the damn thing off. It’s cold, it’s late, I’m standing outside in my PJs, and I’m getting more and more pissed by the second.

Finally he turns it off, and I bellow at him (scared him, I think.) “HEY! It’s 10:30! Give us a break, will ya?”

Bubba looks up. “Huh? It’s whu...?”

I said it again. “IT’S 10:30!!!”

It’s slowly starting to dawn on Dumbass Gump why the guy from across the street is standing there yelling at him. “Oh,” he says. “I guess I’ll give you a break.”

Gee, thanks a friggin’ lot, you inconsiderate louse.

Actually, I didn’t say that, but I did loudly use the Lord’s name in vain as I stomped back home. (For which I am truly sorry – it isn’t God’s fault that His creation is a stupid bastard.)

To his credit, Bubba did stop sawing for the night. But I suspect that he’ll be right back at it tonight, making enough noise to set my nerves on “strangle” again.

But tonight I have a secret weapon. You see, I looked up Sioux City’s noise ordinance. And it turns out that any noise after 10:00 PM is a criminal offense in this town where there’s very little “real” crime, so cops love to write tickets for even petty things. And while I’m telling the nice police dispatcher about Bubba and his noisy saw, I’ll also mention all of his cars that don’t run.

And it’s a damn shame that having a plastic snowman on your roof past January 1 isn’t illegal, too. But I’m writing a letter to my Congressman today...

Oh, the burn! The burn!

Everyone has a hobby. Some are common...some are not. Like this one:

* * * * * * *
Man eats 247 jalapenos to win contest

DALLAS - A 62-year-old retired accountant from Nevada swallowed 247 peppers in eight minutes to win the Jalapeno Eating World Championship at the State Fair of Texas.

Dr. Daniel DeMarco, a gastroenterologist and director of endoscopy at Baylor University Medical Center at Dallas, said the amount of jalapenos consumed in an eating contest is more harmful than the burn.

"It's really pretty stupid," DeMarco said. "Like any sort of abuse of your body, it doesn't make any sense."

* * * * * * *

I appreciate hearing from the doctor at Baylor who thinks filling your piehole with 250 hot peppers isn't a wise decision, but I'm curious to hear what the proctologist thinks about it. Because you just know this dude is shooting flames this morning.

I know, I know. Gross, ain't it? Enjoy your breakfast.

Just don't put any peppers on your Corn Flakes, if you know what's good for you.

Aww - Twue Wove

Every wedding is a little odd in its own way, but the matrimonial ceremony the Lovely Mrs. G. and I attended Saturday night may very well take the (wedding) cake.

My friend (the bride) Robin and I used to work together at The Mouse. We worked pretty well together, and being the practical jokers we both are, we had a lot of fun in between singing Disney songs. Robin was divorced a few years ago, after her husband literally left her and their four girls in the middle of the night for some bimbo he met online. Scuzzbag.

Anyway, time marches on, and in a romantically ironic twist, Robin met Robert through eHarmony.com (what do you know – it really does work!), and the next thing you know, they’re engaged.

Of course, we didn’t know any of this – Mrs. G. and I hadn’t seen Robin in almost a year. But in late August we received an invitation to their wedding. Surprise, surprise – we’re goin’ to a hitching!

So Saturday night came, and off Mrs. G., Miss Katie, and I went to the chapel. Being an evening wedding as it was, we assumed it would be at least semi-formal, so I put on my suit and a tie and my ladies put on dresses. I don’t wear my suit all that often, but what the heck – it’s a wedding, it deserved a little bit of civility.

We show up in the lobby of the church, say hi to a few former CM friends we haven’t seen in several years, then go over to sign the guest book. We then saw the girl passing out the announcements.

Her name is Sarah, and she’s the daughter of one of my other Mouse friends. The last time I saw Sarah, she was all of 12 years old, about 4 feet tall, and a gawky little pre-teen.

Not any more. Now 17, Sarah has grown up, filled out, and apparently decided that a mini-skirt the width of a Band-Aid and a rainbow-striped tube top was appropriate wedding attire.

Yikes. It was like Four Weddings and a Stripper.

Getting past the shock of seeing Little Sarah all grown up and showing it off to the world, we went and found a pew on the left side.

It was then while looking around at the other guests it dawned on us – we were just about the only people dressed up. Miss Katie leaned over to Mrs. G. and I and said, “I think I’m a little overdressed.” She wasn’t kidding. Just about everyone was in jeans and casual shirts. I was the only guy there in a suit.

Maybe Sarah's “Deliver Me From Beyonce’s Closet” wardrobe choice wasn’t that out of place after all. Did we miss something in the invitation that said “come as you are?”

Fortunately, there was a little decorum left, because the groom and his attendants showed up in tuxes. Thank God!

The ceremony started promptly at 7:00, lead by Robin’s four girls, who are now 13, 17, 19, and 21. Robin them came down the aisle in a beautiful pink wedding dress with a long train, looking very happy.

Now, I told you early on this was one of the strangest weddings I’ve ever been to, and I promise you we’re getting to the strange part... right now.

For it was the minister who made it so odd.

First thing, as Robin was passed from the groom father (who’d walked her down the aisle) to her groom, the minister dropped his bible and all of his papers. Seriously – about 20 sheets of paper went flying everywhere. So in front of a wedding party of 12 people, here’s the minister crawling around the floor, retrieving papers.

Trying to compose himself, he then began to speak.

How do I best describe it? It was like this...

Have you ever seen the movie “The Princess Bride”? Do you remember the minister in the film?

The Impressive Clergyman: Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam...
[cut to Westley, Inigo, and Fezzik]
The Impressive Clergyman: And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva...
[cut to the trio again]
The Impressive Clergyman: So tweasure your wuv.

I’m serious. This is EXACTLY what he sounded like.

I couldn’t look over at Mrs. G., because I was deadly afraid I’d burst into laughter at any moment. (I also secretly hoped that Dread Pirate Roberts would show up, just to make things interesting.)

So from this point on, Robin and Robert were referred to as “Wobin and Wobbet.” (Well, almost. Keep reading, and I’ll explain.)

So the minister began his mini-wedding sermon, but told the oddest story. It started with this line:

“When your mawwiage gets stuck, get help.”

Huh? WTF does that mean?

He then proceeded to explain. When he was a young man, he and his brother had worked on a nearby farm. They took the tractor out one day, and got it stuck in the soft dirt. But instead of getting help, he tried backing it up and pulling forward, hoping to free it. Long story short (too late), he buried it up to its axle. So he and his brother went back to the barn, got a second tractor, and tried to use it to pull tractor #1 out. Even longer story short (again: too late), they buried that one too. Oops.

He then wrapped up the totally-unrelated-to-marriage analogy with “So when you get stuck in your mawwiage, get help. Amen.”

AMEN??? To THAT???

Okay, we’re moving on. They did the wings (sorry – I meant “rings”), they did their vows, and a lovely singer sang a Frank Sinatra song.

He then told the gwoom to kiss his bride. Everyone awwwed, and then clapped. All good.

The happy newlyweds then turned to face the audience/crowd/whatever we were, and the minister topped his strange wedding with this line:

“Wadies and Gentlemen, let me intwoduce Mister and Missus...”

Long pause.

“Uhhh...”

HE FORGOT THEIR NAMES!

The groom turns around and whispers “Robert”.

The minister smiles wide. “Oh, yeah – Mister and Missus Robert... Uh...”

HOLY CRAP – HE DID IT AGAIN!

By now just about everyone in the wedding party is yelling their names to the minister (while the rest of us laugh). And by golly – he does manage to get their last name out, too – eventually.

It was over – 17 minutes after it started. A weally, weally, stwange evening.

Later that evening at the reception, Robin came by and sat at our table for a minute. Here she was – a blushing bride, looking resplendent in her beautiful down, full of post-wedding bliss.

She looked across the table at Mrs. G. and I, smiled wide, and said, “He fucking forgot our names.”

She then got up, walked over to another table, and from the look on the faces there, I assume she said the same thing to them.

She did this for the next 5 minutes – going from table to table, staying about 30 seconds, and sharing a laugh about a ceremony they’ll never, ever forget. I know I won’t.

I really hope that someday you’ll see Wobin and Wobbet’s wedding video on “America’s Funniest Home Videos” – I’d vote for her to win the $100,000 bucks.

I just hope she won’t have to split any royalties to the producers of The Princess Bride.

Ain’t twue wove gwand?

Many Happy Returns!

About the only shocking thing about this article is that people admitted it...

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Half Americans Admit to Re-gifting

NEW YORK (Reuters Life!) - Wrapping up that unwanted picture frame from last Christmas and giving it to someone else as a gift might not be as taboo as it once was, according to a study released on Wednesday.

The survey of 1,505 American adults, conducted by market research firm Harris Interactive, found that over half of the respondents admitted to "re-gifting" with passing on gifts becoming a far more common and acceptable phenomenon.

In fact 78 percent of consumers who were polled felt that it was acceptable to re-gift some or most of the time.

According to the survey, the mostly commonly re-gifted items were decorative household items, such as vases, paintings, picture frames and other trinkets.

Wong said that while 77 percent of respondents said they re-gifted because the item was perfectly suited to the new recipient, in some cases, the re-gift was far less generous. The study showed that nine percent of people admitted that they re-gifted out of laziness to purchase a new gift and four percent confessed that they re-gifted out of dislike for the recipient.

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I’ve re-gifted things before, and I know for sure I’ve received re-gifted items. It’s just part of the Circle of Life, I suppose. It’s not something I do on a regular basis, but if you just happen to have an ugly-ass gaudy silver-esque picture frame hidden in the back of your basement, and a not-so-favorite relative just happens to be having a housewarming party, it’s easy to put one and one together. Voila and bite me, Martha Stewart!

My sister-in-law is world famous for giving books for birthday/Christmas presents – books that she’d obviously had read before giving it to you. (She’d forget to remove her bookmarks – oops.)

My younger sister is also infamous for giving crap gifts that reek of cheapness. One year for Christmas she sent me a dollar-bin book on collecting antique furniture. Uh – yeah, that’s me – Mr. Antique. Puh-leeze – about the most “antique” thing in my world is my old 3.5” floppy disks that I can’t bear to part with, because you never know when the day will come when you’ll need a copy of DOS 3.2, and then where will you be?

But my favorite gift story took place about 15 years ago. My friend Andrea had been invited to spend Christmas with her fiancée’s family. They were loaded, and since money was no object they were all accustomed to big, expensive gifts – cars, trips, and enough diamonds to put Liberace to shame.

The family drew names to see who would buy gifts for whom, and Andrea ended up with her fiancée John’s nephew’s name. Nephew Boy was an 18 year old spoiled brat who never had to work for anything in his life, and would certainly never appreciate anything that poor Andrea could afford. (A year earlier the kid had thrown away a brand new Bennetton sweater because “it wasn’t the right color.”)

So what was Andrea going to do? There was no possible gift on Earth that this punk would appreciate from her budget. We talked about it for a few days, until she came up with the best gift she could think of.

For Christmas, Andrea gave Bratty Boy a card with the following note:

“A $50 donation has been made to the March of Dimes in your name.”

Sure enough, the perfect gift for the kid who had everything was a donation to a charity. The March of Dimes got some money to help them out, and with a little luck Bratty Boy got a big dose of humility in his stocking. It was perfect -- what could he say about it? Complain about helping sick kids and you’ll come across as the biggest jerk on the face of the planet.

Andrea said that Bratty Boy was absolutely speechless on Christmas morning, and that the rest of her fiancée’s family spent the rest of the day complimenting her on her generosity. Wow – be a hero AND put a punk in his place. It’s a two-for-one special!

I’m a firm believer that making a donation to someone who could use the help is a wonderful gift – I’ve got enough junk laying around the house – instead of bringing in more, why not help out someone who has nothing?

So be sure to help out those who are less fortunate this Thanksgiving/Christmas. You’ll be glad you did.

But please – don’t give them any crappy silvere-esque picture frames.

What's In A Name?

This picture is circulating the Web today – it’s of a movie theater in Orange City, Iowa – about 50 miles NW of here.

Yes, they were too “embarbutted” to use the word “Jackass” on their marquee, so they renamed “Jackass Two” to “Jackbutt Two”.

I’ve been to Orange City. It’s a heavily Dutch-influenced town, filled with windmills, wooden shoes, and tulips. Overall it’s not a bad place. But apparently they have a problem with the letters A-S-S. Even though the term is used biblically to describe mules/donkeys, and the word “jackass” isn’t exactly a vulgarity, the prim & proper people of Orange City were careful not to display it on the streets of their fair city.

Of course, you can drop the $8 to watch Johnny Knoxville and his group of Jackbutts do horribly profane things INSIDE the theater. Or you can catch one of the other fine films, where odds are high that they also include at least one scene of violence, sex, extreme swearing, or someone getting hit in the crotch.

Is there a kid out there who doesn’t know the term “Jackass” anymore? Especially in these days where swearing is prevalent in just about every form of media, a relatively mellow term just as Jackass really isn’t that bad. If they’d called the movie “Dumbshits”, I could understand the reaction. But Jackass? It’s not that big of a deal.

So the next time you run out to the bijou for a matinee, be sure to proudly march up to the ticket window, take a deep breath, and bellow, “Yes, my fine ticket seller. I need two tickets for... Jackass Two!”

You’ll be glad you did.

Got Gas?

I paid $1.97 a gallon for gasoline yesterday. Did you ever think that you’d be THRILLED to pay $1.97 for gas? Still, it beats the alternative, and it was pretty nice to top off the convertible for only $20 bucks.