The Ugly Baby

A dear friend of mine recently gave birth to a baby. In many cultures this event is a cause for celebration and thanksgiving. Upon looking at the child, I decided that I never want to have children.

New born babies are butt ugly. The squished face of a newborn resembles a warped potatoe. There is nothing cute about pleated folds of flaming red skin and blood curdling screams. We may try to put decorative hats upon our newborns to disguise their unnaturally smeared faces, but the truth of the matter is: It is a miracle that any of us survived this ugly stage of life.

Poop. Babies poop. Cry. Babies cry. Babies cry while pooping. There is a placid yellow paint colored substance that can only be produced by an infant. This is something I never want to experience again. When babies wear diapers we think it is cute. I guarantee all those reading this, that when I begin wearing diapers again you will most definitely not think it is cute.

Therefore, I declare that if I see your baby and it is not cute I will not mask my feelings. The honest truth must be told. I will simply say, "Your child is so ... um ... how about I crotchet him a nice decorative hat?!"

Lost in the Bathroom

John Lackstrom

Height: 5'2

Hair Color: Bald

Age: 102 years old

Hobbies: Resembles a turtle

Welcome to History of Linguistics, the slowest most boring class to take the stage in my collegiate career. Meet John Lackstrom, an enchanting professor who chuckles at his own jokes without moving his lips.

This is the setting for my Monday afternoon. While suffocating through descriptions of phonetics and colloquialisms, my bladder suddenly awoke to a fairly arousing realization that, yes, I had to urinate.

It was an emergency. A flash flood was about to be realized within my trousers. I began my epic marathon to the nearest restroom, the third floor lavatory. Upon skidding into the tiled sanctuary of the weary hearted, I took the short cut and simply unzipped my zipper to fish out the appropriate appendage.

To my horror I could not find him. The convenient flap that protects said member of the body was no where to be found! I could not find an opening in my underwear. The urgency of my overflowing bladder was causing me to dance the familiar Celtic Piddle Dance.

All of this was superseded by the older gentleman waiting not so patiently behind me. His foul smell and encouraging clearing of his throat distracted me long enough to give up trying to find the elusive critter. I simply undid my entire package: belt, button and zipper. The river flowed free and life was good.

The problem that not even John Lackstrom could for see with all his knowledge of language families and Russian eggs was this: I not only had my underwear on inside out... I also had it on backwards!

Hunter's Education Meets Lee Cannon

April 4, 2009, marked a day in history never to be forgotten: Lee Cannon ventured his way into the realm of the hunter.

The massive head of a taxidermy bull moose stared at me as I passed through the doors. His glassy eyes followed my every move. An overwhelming sense of not belonging blanketed my body.

My purpose that day was to become hunter certified, my goal that day was to simply survive.

I was wearing a delicious argyle sweater with pin striped slacks as I entered the classroom to meet my fellow Hunter's Education classmates. Each of the nine fellows matched the man next to him: camouflage, a beard, a hat and the scent of deer urine on their boots. I must have missed the memo.

The written test seemed to be tailored to my extensive knowledge of hunting. Questions were asked such as: What is the most effective weapon to harvest an animal with: a) a butter knife b) a Lego pirate ship c) a rifle d) a bottle of Windex.

The jeers and fairly pointed jests made from my bearded peers in regards to my "prissy city boy" appearance seemed to escalate as we entered the shooting range. "Do you know how to shoot that thing?" questioned Melbourne, a stalky pot-bellied man. I replied by swinging the gun around and asking, "Kind of like this?" The quick movement sent everybody searching for cover.

Our targets hung, guns loaded, and safety goggles on, we began shooting. The constant trash talking around me would have shaken many, but I was focused on proving the Neanderthals wrong. I pulled the trigger 45 times and prayed that my shots would save me from a barrage of ridicule from my ever fashionable shooting buddies.

The pulleys began retracting our targets, my heart stood still. I needed 30 of my 45 shots to be within a certain section of the illustrated rabbit target. To my udder delight, 41 of my 45 shots decorated the bull's eye!

"Damn, I thought you was queer!" roared Roger, the massive gunman, as he tore the paper target out of my finger's grasp. "But you shoot real nice. I am gonna take you huntin' with me and we are puttin' your name in for a mule tag!" I tried to explain that I am much too loud and prone to singing to be taken hunting, but Roger, Melbourne, Ron and Bruce all agreed that I will be their future hunting buddy.

Please forgive me if I begin wearing camouflage or acquire the scent of a large game animal's bodily fluids on my shoes, I am simply trying to fit into my new crowd of friends.