Tired of Patriot running backs going down before the end of the season, Abby trains for the position:
Blog
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WWfB Flirts with Perfection!
Will Work for Beer put on a dominating display last night at The Tin Whistle, coming within 2 correct questions of a perfect score! Only the wily, pro-slavery Martin Van Buren and the occasionally anti-Semitic while drunk driving Mel Gibson were able to trip up the understaffed but overachieving tri-force of trivia power.
Apparently little Martin V learned Dutch before Presidential English (at least he learned English eventually!) and mullet-coifed Mel somehow got himself voted “The Sexiest Man Alive” in 1985 by People magazine.
We were suspicious that left-leaning Jefferson might have learned French first and we thought for sure that the sexiest man alive in 1985 had to have been the Hawaiian freeloader Tom Selleck. Damn it… sometimes when you’re sitting on a fastball you get the changeup!
Asked about what it will take to improve to a perfect score, Addison mused, “it really comes down to U.S. Presidents. Schultz was supposed to bring that body of knowledge to the table, but he went Adalius Thomas on us. We were thinking about replacing him with a moderately-bright macaw whose cage sits next to a browser viewing wikipedia, but instead we’re just going to divide up the Presidents and brush up on them for next week.”
Asked if he wanted to insult Schultz as well, John replied cryptically, “all I know is you can’t make a truly great burrito without a tortilla softening machine; it simply cannot be done.”
Donate your money to WWfB Thursday nights at The Tin Whistle.
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I like ice cream!
No hidden messages here; I just like ice cream:
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Baby Explains Recent Misbehavior
Asked recently about her apparent unwillingness to cooperate or to act according to her parents’ wishes, Abigail Moore explained, “I don’t really listen to them. I pretty much do whatever I want.”
Pressed for additional details, Abigail continued, “look… they have their agenda and I have my agenda. Sometimes our goals synch up, but often we simply want to go in different directions. Hell… lots of times I can’t even figure out what they’re babbling about any way, so I’ve learned to just tune them out most of the time. I just filter out all the words except backpack, quack quack, raisins, Granma, and bath.”
Abigail’s father was not shocked to hear such revelations from his daughter. “Yeah… that sounds about right. I’d estimate that Abby listens to me about 10 percent of the time and complies with my requests about 1 percent of the time. I’m hoping to double my success rate over the next 17 or so years.”
Abby’s mother insisted that the problem was overblown. “I haven’t seen much of this behavior. Abby frequently does what I want her to do as long as she wants to do it and has started doing it prior to me asking her to do it. It’s not a perfect system, but it works out. Success is all about anticipation.”
Asked if she plans on behaving better in the future, Abby reflected, “probably not. Right now I’m in a phase we small people term ‘liftable.’ As soon as I get a little heavier, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to ignore my parents completely. The dog weighs about a buck-five and he hasn’t listened to anyone in like four years. He’s the gold standard for me right now.”
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Avian Violence at Chez Moore!
We seem to have a problem attracting the right winged visitors. I put up a bat house two years ago; hornets moved into it. I replaced the bat house with a bird feeder last year; birds are now killing (and eating!) each other (in addition to the seeds!) in our back yard!
At first we thought this was a freak occurrence. A pile of feathers suggested bird violence, but there was no corpse. On cue, a big black bird flew back into our yard carrying a sparrow in its beak! Ok… fine… Lord of the Flies meet Lord of the Birds, but later the same day, the black birds took down another sparrow and proceeded to eviscerate and dine upon the victim.
We either need to stop the murders or write a new verse to Abby’s favorite cartoon bird song:
I love to watch the birdies play!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
The black ones kill the grey ones!
Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!
They like to eat seeds!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
But they also eat each other!
Doon doon! Doon doon doon! Doon doon doon! Doon doon!I think the crows are doing the actual killing, but the redwing blackbirds seem to be getting involved with the eating, so it’s kind of a general black bird issue at the moment. Hogan the ridgeback has been known to momentarily inconvenience squirrels on the feeder, as they will casually move from the feeder to the top of the fence when he gets within a couple feet of them, but he’s essentially useless against flying pests. He’s pathologically afraid of greenhead flies, so he’s never going to get the job done against crows. What we really need is a grotesquely-massive house cat or some kind of a midget panther, but these beasts seem to cause more difficulties than they solve.
I may try to domesticate some crows with peanuts (apparently that’s an option!), or I may just wait until it’s a dark and stormy night and move the damn bird feeder into a neighbor’s yard.
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Survivor is Dead to Me…
“If she can win the game twice, there is a flaw in the game.” Russell Hantz.
Yep… there’s a definite flaw in the game. Twice in a row now (and I’ve only watched the last two seasons!), the most pathetic player remaining has been voted the winner of Survivor by a crew of sour grapes losers. This is the fatal flaw of Survivor… this “let the losers decide the winner” finale.
Who came up with such a craptacular endgame? Donny? What a crock! Was it the same jackass who tried to make all little league baseball games end by rule in a tie, so that no feelings are hurt. But this is really even worse than PC invasions into recreational activities! This is like saying, “hey now! You’re a competent player! You’ve outwitted, outplayed, and outlasted, so now you’re shit out of luck! That’ll teach you… you… you achiever! The time for kicking ass and writing down the names of losers is over, so congratulations Natalie… and thata-grrrl, Sandra! Let’s hear it for the weak and the inept!”
Note: this should really be a longer post about what’s wrong with America these days, but I am a voter, not a thinker.
Another note: my wife says that I completely underestimate the “social game” within Survivor, that yang without yin does not a winner make. Blah blah blah. To me, that’s like saying a diving catch in the endzone should count more than a half yard run up the middle, or that Steve Nash should get two points for each free throw because he’s super-informed and outspoken on social issues that don’t affect him personally. I just threw up a little bit and can taste it at the back of my throat.
Unless they change the finale to be some kind of an actual competition (instead of a high school popularity contest) between the remaining contestants, it’s just a sham, man. It’s like a Miss America Pageant without even the talent segment; if Vegas won’t give you odds and let you bet on it, it’s just not a real sporting event… it’s crap dumped in an exotic location. Hey! It’s kind of what LOST is turning out to be after all these years.
Where else does this happen? Where else do the losers get to decide the winner by exercising their voting privileges? Do the Bruins (after their historic collapse against the Flyers) get to vote for the Stanley Cup Champion? “Hmmm… Philly kicked our ass, but we just don’t like the cut of their collective jib! Let’s vote for the Sharks!” Did the Yankees (after their historic collapse against the Red Sox) get to vote for the World Series Champion? “The Red Sox scored more runs, but damn it if La Russa doesn’t give a fantastic concession speech! Shine on you crazy Cardinals; you’re the ‘real’ champions in our collective mind!”
Ultimately… yes… and thank heavens… the real losers are those individuals watching Survivor on television or (even more damning… uh… I mean… empowering!) writing blog posts about how much Survivor sucks afterward. But I now understand that losing carries with it godlike power and responsibility, so I can’t wait to get together with other losers to start determining winners!
Now that I’m a Survivor loser, who should I make a winner today? Should it be a crappy sitcom? Should it be cable news? Maybe I’ll make European Handball on ESPN IX a winner tonight? Now that I’m onboard with the Survivor methodology, only my capacity for losing limits my opportunities for crowning winners in this new Survivor universe, and I plan on taking full advantage of it.
You beat me at golf? Great! Pay me… because I just voted my Rhodesian Ridgeback the winner and I’m his accountant. Your team beat my team in YMCA basketball? Nope. We have 8 players to your 7 and we just voted ourselves another win. You want us to pay this bar tab? I don’t know… you got the votes? You might owe us money.
One thing’s for certain: LOST ain’t winning a damn thing if I have anything to say about it.
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Open the damn Howling Wolf Already!
Look at this! I’m eating an unpeeled carrot and bread I was supposed to throw to the ducks in the pond. I COULD be eating a delicious burrito from the Howling Wolf Taqueria if Pat would get off his ass and open the doors while I’m still young enough to be carried into the restaurant!
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Baby Jawa!
Is it the Iron Sheikette? No! It’s a baby Jawa… and as Addison noted… it’s a baby Jawa dancing on the new bamboo!
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Defenestrators Dominate!
Buoyed by a final round requiring identification of sundry 80’s Hair Bands, the Defenestrators dropped in unexpectedly and took home first place cash from Tin Whistle Trivia.
What we knew: just about everything, frankly. Who told you not to squeeze the Charmin? We know. Who discovered penicillin? We know. What NFL team won Superbowl I? We know. What NBA team has the most championships? We know… and you should really know too.
What we learned: Kansas is the freaking sunflower state. Coolidge is the only U.S. President born on the fourth of July. Some moron cohosted season one of American Idol with Ryan Seacrest; none of us caught his name. Bon Jovi can honestly be mistaken for Stryper in a fuzzy picture, and some dude in their band looks like a lady. Pat’s as useless as a wet cocktail napkin in a bar fight when the pressure’s on in the final round. Andy insists on spelling the band Pois(s)on with an extra s, because that’s the way it should be done.
What we relearned: bar trivia is much more lucrative than Sunday softball in the Industrial League. The Headers provide roughly the same level of competition when absent as they do when present.
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Joanie Phone Home!
Pretty much everyone except Matt H now realizes that the Android operating system is the best platform for a mobile phone, but getting the right phone is just the beginning. Joanie, like much of the Generation V demographic, still needs a little help parenting her new Droid. In the hopes that it will be of use to others, here’s the transcript of our latest smart phone discussion.
Joanie: wow… the iPhone truly does suck but the Motorola Droid does so damn much! I hate overachievers! Simmer down, you crazy phone of doing stuff!
Andy: just keep deleting apps until all it does is sit like a brick on an end table.
Joanie: this thing has GPS? I’m not sure I want my phone knowing where I am all the time. What if I pick up another phone and the Droid asks me about it later? Sometimes I’m tempted to fondle the pink iPhones, but now my Droid could ask me in its little Droid voice, “why were you in the Apple Store? When did you stop loving me?”
Andy: you can turn the Droid off… or… you could turn it AND the iPhone on by holding both phones to either ear at once! Remember… Droid does, so “no” always means “yes” for the Droid. If you let an iPhone and a Droid mate, the iPhone gives birth to a little V baby handheld… kind of a Blackberry with an alien tail.
Joanie: the Droid’s font is soooo tiny! Tee Hee! It’s got a little teeny tiny font!
Andy: probably don’t want to embarrass your phone like that or it might start faking incoming calls on you. It’s not the size of the font that matters; it’s the quality of the connection!
Joanie: I live in New York. Could smartphones be too difficult for me?
Andy: it’s quite possible.
Joanie: hey! There’s an opening in Verizon University’s 12-step Fundamentals of Texting class! I’m signing up!
Andy: sweet! Let me know if you need a sponsor.
Joanie: Kenny and I want to buy one of those new-fangled 4-slot toasters. Want to come with us to Bradlees to pick one out?
Andy: ummm… Bradlees?
Joanie: yeah… the department store in Manhattan; it’s right down the block from Socrates’ Retreat!
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Better Call Saul, Baby!
Although I usually speak an alien baby language, Mom’s always worried I’m going to start spewing four-letter words like my Dad. Sure… he can be pretty funny when he hits his thumb with a hammer or runs into the coffee table with his knee, but the word that really strikes my baby fancy these days is litigious! As soon as I can say it, I’m gonna put it right to work!
What a great word! What a great concept! I’m pretty well-known for getting what I want when I want it, but this is a smoking backup plan for those few times when Grandma Mugger is a little slow with the raisins or Mom tries to make me eat brussels sprouts! Think babies are too cute to sue people; think they’d never be able to pull it off? Pphhht! Not true! Not true at all! I once kept an accusatory scowl on my face for a week and a half despite foot and chin tickling.
Exhibit I: Dog Attacks Mean Baby Greenbacks!
Dogs are occasionally useful beasts, but since they siphon off a portion of attention that could better shower down upon me, they’re ultimately expendable. When I sue Porter and he goes to the pound, I’ll still have Hogan to eat the food on the ground (damn! that even rhymes!), and honestly, I don’t think Hogan needs the help. Sometimes that horse starts eating my food BEFORE I throw it, and I’ve never seen him too full to finish the job. By throwing Porter under the bus for eating my right hand, I’ll have enough money to buy a second pony, better tasting sidewalk chalk, and a sippee cup that doesn’t leak whenever I try to sip from it. I also might start throwing with my left hand… bonus for Dad!
Exhibit II: Away From Home Alone Equals Latte Foam!
If you’re a small person that prefers to walk rather than be carried, eventually you will hear something like, “ok… well… we’re leaving… bye, Abigail!” This threatened separation used to scare me. I used to run up to my parents with the universal, arm-raised pick-me-up immediately if not sooner sign. Now I know that this warning merely offers me an opportunity to own my own house in Massachusetts, my own Honda, and my own Toyota. Go ahead, big people, leave me in my diaper in the wilderness and see how you like it when I’m setting the bedtimes, choosing the menu, and picking the outfits for the day. What do you know? Another pink outfit for you before we sit down to a nice meal of peanut butter!
Exhibit III: Kissing Cousin Can Kiss College Savings Goodbye!
My cousin is a good guy… well… when he’s not trying to play with the same toy I am. It would be a shame to have to threaten to go on Oprah and expose him as a pint-sized predator, but if a girl needs a Barbie Dreamhouse new set of Ping Irons, a girl has got to do what a girl has got to do. I used to think these people were annoying as hell snapping all these pictures of mundane baby activities (not to mention shots of me in the bathtub!), but now I recognize the power of photographic evidence on gullible juries, so keep snapping away, people!
Oh no… gotta go! I’ve got a voicemail from Saul!
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A Word from the Owner
Today I’d like to take a moment to talk to you about presents… and more specifically… my presents.
I like presents. Presents help to keep me happy. As my parents will tell you, things tend to go more smoothly when I am happy and less smoothly when I am not happy, so it’s in EVERYONE’S best interest to keep me as happy as possible. Lavish gifts cannot guarantee protection from my mercurial temper and violent wrath, but they may indeed mitigate at least a portion of my tantrums.
Towards that end, I would like to remind everyone that it is now March. It’s only taken me two tries to realize that March is a pretty forgettable month overall, but let’s not use that as an excuse to sulk and to lose sight of the big picture. March, especially with our recent 8 inches of sideways rain, is a crappy time to play outside in the sandbox, but it is a wonderful time to get out there and start collecting nifty stuff for the November and December Festivals d’Abby!
Almost a quarter of your Abigail shopping days are ALREADY GONE for this year, so don’t waste another minute! Carpe Toyum!
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Max Computer Repair
So Max arrives at our house on Saturday and promptly says, “Uncle Andy, thanks for helping my Dad out with his computer problems, but you’re going about it the wrong way. You have to show that virus who’s boss! You gotta take control pack leader style! You gotta spit in the malware’s eye and stomp on it! Reformat? I’ll show you a reformat!”
Note: after it starts playing, change setting from 360p to 480p for higher quality!
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Just a little Quiet before the Madness…
Some have suggested that I have left the Cancun post up for an inordinate amount of time simply because it represents such a convincing victory over Nancy and Christian. Never before have I competed in the pseudo marine biochemistry field, so it IS amazing for me to walk away with the gold medal in salinity musing.
That being said, I have not allowed the prior post to linger for any reason other than a pesky busyness that has descended upon me. This too shall pass, or I will have it removed like a malfunctioning appendix.
In case I find no time to write before the NCAA Basketball tournament begins, let me remind everyone that I won the pool last year and I intend to win it this year.
I will post my tournament picks as soon as it is too late for any of you to benefit from them!
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Like Salt in the Cancun!
If you do not recall or were not privy to the quasi cerebral discussion in waist-deep Cancun water concerning waist-deep Cancun water, the following hypotheses emerged concerning presumed higher salinity levels as one approaches the equator:
Christian surmised, “warmer water allows for a higher concentration of salt due to solubility properties. Warmer water can simply hold higher concentrations of dissolved substances than colder water. I know this from cooking meth…”
Nancy interrupted, “there’s more salt in warmer water because people tend to go on vacation where the water is warmer. As everyone knows, people like to drink margaritas in warmer weather, and margaritas are traditionally served with a healthy coating of salt on the rim of the glass. Over time, the spilled margaritas of intoxicated vacationers have raised vacation area ocean salinity. Plus, people pee more in warm water and I’m pretty sure pee is salty.”
Emily protested, “Who cares? Are you really going to fight about this? It doesn’t matter and you’re just going to get upset over nothing. Have you stopped eating butter? Have you started eating butter? None of you change your behavior when faced with verifiable evidence gleaned from these conversations, so your arguments reduce tragically to petty competition rather than sustainable improvements of the human condition.”
Andy corrected, “there’s more salt in warmer water due to evaporation. Water evaporates relatively quickly from a warm location leaving behind heavier substances like salt, and then the salt-free water falls back to earth in a cooler area which tends to leave the area of evaporation with a higher concentration of salt. I don’t really know the answer, but that’s some fine bullshit if you’re going to put me on the spot. There are no empty calories in Mexican butter either.”
Note: quoted material above is paraphrased but thought to be essentially accurate by the author.
It turns out that everyone involved in this inpromptu Mensa meeting was doomed to a certain level of failure, since a quick tour of the Web suggests convincingly that warmer water is NOT in and of itself necessarily saltier than colder water. See below for more fun facts on this! Left with the disagreeable yet necessary task of sorting out who was least wrong, I’m happy to report that I, Andy, presented by far the worthiest explanation, because I offered the only ocean salinity factors of measurable consequence mentioned in the Cancun conversation… evaporation and rainfall.
Some might insist that I am arguably CORRECT in my hyposthesis, but since I left out the effects of melting ice and rivers (but are these not also due to evaporation and rainfall?) and implicitly agreed that warm ocean water carries a higher rate of salinity due to its temperature alone, I’m putting myself in the “wrong but righter than these pretenders” category. I may change my mind as we get closer to the Olympics; national pride always encourages me to aggrandize past competitive accomplishments.
Christian was completely off-base and has probably set back several years the chemical competence of anyone overhearing our conversation. Nancy, in truth, may be correct, but she needs to write several carefully-worded research grants to raise the funds necessary to support her theory, and she furthermore needs to publish her empirical findings in a journal of sufficient prestige before I can possibly give her any sort of credit.
Notes, Works Cited, Evidence, Etc.
Yale University says, “density differences are a function of temperature and salinity. Warm water holds less (emphasis mine) salt than cold water so it is less dense and rises toward the surface while cold, salt laden water sinks… The amount of salt in the world’s oceans vary between 33 to 37 parts per thousand. The Atlantic Ocean is the saltiest, with the Pacific Ocean the next saltiest, and the Arctic and Antarctic the least salty. The most salty water is found in waters where there is a minimum of rainfall or river runoff, and high evaporation (emphasis mine). Water is the least salty where large quantities of freshwater are supplied by melting ice, rivers, or excessive rainfall (emphasis mine).” Source: http://www.yale.edu/ynhti/curriculum/units/1994/5/94.05.08.x.html
Palomar Community College concurs and adds, “the salinity of ocean water varies. It is affected by such factors as melting of ice, inflow of river water, evaporation (emphasis mine), rain (emphasis mine), snowfall, wind, wave motion, and ocean currents that cause horizontal and vertical mixing of the saltwater… The saltiest water (40 o/oo ) occurs in the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf, where rates of evaporation (emphasis mine) are very high. Of the major oceans, the North Atlantic is the saltiest; its salinity averages about 37.9 o/oo. Within the North Atlantic, the saltiest part is the Sargasso Sea, an area of about 2 million square miles, located about 2,000 miles west of the Canary Islands. The Sargasso Sea is set apart from the open ocean by floating brown seaweed “sargassum” from which the sea gets its name. The saltiness of this sea is due in part to the high water temperature (up to 83º F) causing a high rate of evaporation (emphasis mine) and in part to its remoteness from land; because it is so far from land, it receives no fresh-water inflow. Source: http://www.palomar.edu/oceanography/salty_ocean.htm
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Better Walking Evidence
Since Jim expressed doubt over the earlier Zapruder films, here is a marginally better one. One of these days we’ll film during the day and not in front of a lamp.
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Some Abby Walking!
These are a little dark, but they’re undeniable evidence that Abby is now a walker!
Don’t down your bottle and then try to walk!
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Lost Cancun Photos
As many of you know, some official Cancun pictures have made their way online, but a few pictures have been held back and I’ll be publishing them with commentary over the next few weeks.
Lost Cancun Photo #1: The Max & Billy Dust Up
It’s common knowledge that the flight from Boston to Cancun was a bit bumpy after Mom played a practical joke on Dad by hiding his passport between the seat and the wall of the airplane. Boy was that hilarious! I laughed so hard that I spit kicked a 40 ounce bottle of water on to my Dad’s lap when I heard about it! He internalizes anger, so I screamed for him throughout the 5 hour flight! Sorry lady in seat 13C; you know who you are!
Many of you may NOT know that we also faced a rather awkward and potentially dangerous in-flight situation when my cousin Max leaned over his seat and insisted to Mr. Idol that “Mony Mony” was shallow, derivative, and performed perhaps more pleasingly on Max’s six months to a year old plastic DJ entertainment center.
Lost Cancun Photo #2: Japanese Businessmen Rethinking Past-time
Too much happened during Nancy’s gala birthday celebration for a mere camera to capture or for YouTube to adequately compress and squeeze through America’s aging and tired telecommunication network. News has already leaked concerning Nancy’s performance of a Rolling Stones song that shall not be named.*
As the picture documents, there were actually several Nancy Karaoke performances and, in her defense, she showed improved range and ability with each successive act.
Lost Cancun Photo #3: Jim and Nancy’s Secretive Side Trip
When we got up at 4:30AM on Wednesday, Jim and Nancy were nowhere to be found. All they left was a cryptic note reading, “see you and the crying babies at the dinner buffet.” Luckily, the parentparazzi graciously documented their side trip for us. Unfortunately, this is pretty much the only picture we can publish and still maintain our PG-13 blog rating.
That’s all for now! We’ll be getting some more shots up soon
*It shall not be named largely because no one in attendance could recognize (much less identify!) it.
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Jets ain’t no Mets… give em that!
After the possibility of New Orleans playing in… errr… winning a Super Bowl, the Jets playoff run is arguably the best team story in the NFL this year.
Instead of manufacturing a great regular season lead and then squandering it on the way towards (but not to!) the playoffs, the Jets put their act together enough to climb into the playoffs, and then they put together a couple exciting, feel good games that sucked their fans into actually believing they had a chance to be AFC Champions.
Never before has a bandwagon been built and set into motion faster than those poor Springsteen souls in parking lot New Jersey! Too bad they built it with a five-year-old’s plastic Legos and it couldn’t last one more game!
Of particular amusement to Patriot fans, you can look closely at game film of the stands in Indy and make out the exact moment when Fireman Ed’s heart explodes in his chest. Can’t wait to see you guys go 7 and 9 next year with a loss to Buffalo!
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Abigail Mailbag: Holiday Shopping Edition!
Many of you have written me for holiday advice, so let’s take care of the most difficult part of the holidays first… the shopping!
Ebenezer writes, “Abigail, I never know what to buy and the mall crowds frighten me. Can’t we just call the whole thing off?”
Deep breaths, Ebenezer. All you’re missing is a combination of proper tools and sound technique. First, get yourself a shopping cart. Having a cart will allow you to easily wheel my gifts to the checkout line, and it will provide a safe, tortoise shell shelter if the crowds close in on you too much. I don’t know how I survived a year without one of these things! How can you baby shop effectively when you’re limited to what you can hold in your two little hands!? Start with a cart; from there it’s just baby steps to becoming a competent consumer.
Goneril writes, “sometimes I doubt myself and secretly fear, ‘what if Abby already has this pastel plastic Hasbro kitchen set?.’ It’s embarrassing. How can I get passed this phobia.”
Two tiny words, my friend: gift receipt. Don’t fight your nature; use its own weight against it!
Midas writes, “do you like white gold or yellow gold?”
I like the way you think, buddy! Nothing says happy holidays like jewelry, but honestly, I tend to wear more food these days than precious metals. The real question should be, “ketchup or mustard?” The real answer is, “depends what I’m
eatingwearing!” Ketchup matches my eyes and complexion better, but mustard can look damn good when I’m wearing Navy blue or black velvet. To be safe, you’d better get both… and pickle relish makes a good stocking stuffer! Now ask me what color chocolate I like!Officer O’Malley writes, “since you have no apparent job, no money, and no allowance yet, isn’t it true, Abigail (if that is your real name), that what you’re doing is more properly termed shoplifting than shopping? Maybe you should be fitted for a baby ankle monitor rather than that mink shawl you’re pawing.”
Nothing gets by you, O’Malley… except maybe a good time.
Seriously though… we should touch on this for safety. If you’re small and under-financed, you must be prepared for such a situation. You need to learn how to react appropriately if a tall person accuses you of pesky offenses like petty larceny and grand theft tricycle. As a short person, you need to master the extremely effective, “tall person has scared me and I’m going to throw a public temper tantrum like you’ve never seen before” look.
This can get you out of practically any situation, and 9 times out of 10, they’ll be so frazzled that they’ll just let you keep whatever you’ve collected in your cart. Extra points if you get a rent-a-cop so scared that he tasers himself.
Forbes writes, “as a plastic toy shopping cart consumer and advocate, what happens when whatever you want to buy won’t fit in your tiny cart? Doesn’t cart size matter?”
It honestly hasn’t been much of an issue yet. Ponies, my friend, carry themselves and I can’t imagine any present bigger than a pony!
Happy holidays, everyone! If you’re reading, Santa, I’m a size 12 to 18 months!
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Winter currently sucks!
White stuff is cold. Can’t move in this damn suit. Can’t see in this damn hat. Parents are laughing at me. This is why I bite.
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Kenny Marches… ummm… in.
Unfortunately for me, the New Orleans Saints have postponed their late season swoon this year. As they’re practically assured of a first-round bye at this point, we’ll have to wait until the second round of the NFL playoffs to watch them crush the tiny hopes and dreams of a below-sea-level, eyesore city not yet recovered from the whims of category four hurricanes and category considerably less emergency response teams.
Author’s note: the Jets and the Mets and the Orangemen and all New Yorkers still respectively suck and Rex Ryan (the Santa job at the mall is open when you get fired, Rex!) is now an obnoxious crybaby, instead of simply being an obnoxious bore. None of this is pertinent to the Saints, of course, but these facts should not be misplaced even during the brief Kenny euphoria brought on by an overachieving Drew Brees who couldn’t quite throw enough interceptions to derail the clownish, bayou pretenders.
I’m thrilled there’s at long last a mosquito’s appendix-sized bit of joy in the Silbergleit athletic spectator ranks, even if Kenny needed to travel to Louisiana to support a questionable American quasi state foolishly named after a European Monarch… a buggy, boggy burg where biting someone with your own teeth is considered simple assault while biting someone with your false teeth is prosecuted as aggravated assault. Who knew?
I’m not calling Kenny unAmerican; but if anyone else wants to do so, I think they’re certainly entitled and on firm footing to make such an aggressive claim. In any case, he’s certainly no fan of Patriots and his fries are apparently French, not Freedom.
I’ll never understand how these backward, fall-behind at the start of every frickin game but then come back people ponied up to win 10 NFL games in a row, but fair is fair, so here’s a life-size picture of Kenny’s legitimately earned prize… an elixir he can quaff quietly as the Pats exact swift revenge on the Saints Monday night.
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Halloween Baby Kumite!
High in the carpet-covered hills of Peabody, two furry, fictional characters locked in mortal (if infantile!) combat.
Bulbous yet agile, Maximus “Master Arachnawalrus” seized with two of his eight legs a plastic platform of immense size and hurled it at the relentless tigress!
Sabertoothed Abbysaurus dodged with cat-like reflexes and struck with a fury that transcended all consanguinity and animal kingdom rivalry!
Only a costumed stranger’s knock at the door interrupted the combatants’ battle long enough for parents to intervene, to separate, and to redirect the creatures outside on a cooperative mission to extort Halloween candy from neighbors.
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Abby Beta Tests Halloween Outfit!
In a move surely designed to antagonize Hogan, Abby “chose” to be a tiger for Halloween. More troubling, Abby then “decided” to try on her furry outfit and to parade in front of the Rhodesian Ridgeback as he dozed on his leather lounger.
Hogan did not, however, leap off the couch and try to corner the “cat” in the livingroom. Instead, he merely lifted one weary eye toward costumed Abigail before circling three times on the cushions and returning to the realm of canine dreams.
When later asked about his lethargic reaction to a wild tiger clearly in need of chasing, Hogan seemed surprised that the tiger was in fact Abigail in disguise. He explained his lack of interest instead by insisting that his ancestors were “lion hounds,” not “tiger hounds.” He patiently explained that there are lions, there are tigers, and there are bears in the world, and that each respective game species has an appropriate breed of hound to chase them.
He was not at all sure what breed of dog should chase tigers, but in any event, he made it clear that it was not the Peabody Ridgeback.