Sunday, December 11, 2005

Random Notes From The Weekend

Santa Squatting

This weekend we took the kids to my Elks Lodge’s annual children’s Christmas party to meet Santa Clause. My mother-in-law got there way before us and scored us great seats, front row and barely five feet from where that over-eating elf’s chair was located. Thanks to traffic, a baby with a penchant for projectile vomiting not seen since The Exorcist and a three year old boy whose poor urinary marksmanship almost guarantees a mandatory wardrobe change when you’re in a hurry, we arrived quite late. No sooner had we got the kids seated and served with their hot dogs when jolly St. Nick entered the banquet hall and occupied his red velvet throne directly across from my son (the one with poor aim). One of his helpers then handed him a present, from which Santa read the name tag attached to it and asked, “Is Joshua here?”

A little boy, who was probably two, let out a squeal of delight after hearing Santa call his name and ran down the aisle into his lap like he had just been picked to be a game show contestant. An entourage of parent-paparazzi was hot on his heels. As Joshua took his place on Santa’s lap, he was bombarded by camera flash bulbs while he tried to tell the old man what he wanted to find under his tree Christmas morning. As this was going on, I took a quick look at my older son, who was trembling with excitement while he chewed a mouthful of hot dog. I then turned away and looked to my daughter, who seemed to be sizing him up, wondering why he looked so different from the guy she had seen at the shopping mall a few days earlier. Then I glanced over at my baby boy, who was mostly oblivious to the whole scene. While I was looking at him, my mother-in-law caught my attention and told me I had better go get my three year old. I swung my head back around towards the seat next to me, where my three-year-old had been sitting, only to find it empty. I then looked back up towards Santa’s throne and found my boy sitting on Santa’s lap opposite little Joshua one arm wrapped around Santa’s neck and his free hand still clutching the hot dog, which was dripping ketchup, mustard and relish onto Mr. Kringle’s pants. Santa looked rather surprised and unsure of what to do next. The parents of the little boy who should rightfully have been there looked befuddled. Joshua looked pissed. My son looked like he was having a ball.

As I leapt from my seat to bring him back, my son was jabbering away at lightening speed. He saw me coming and probably figured that he had a limited amount of time to press his point before I usurped him from his seat on Santa’s lap. I can’t tell exactly what he was saying, but I’m sure it was something along the lines of “…and I want a Rescue Heroes Roger Houston helicopter and a rocket ship and a Buzz Lightyear laser glove, the real one, not one of those pansy-ass little light bulb jobs (I figure I give Dad a swift shot to the ‘nads with one of those babies, he’ll think twice about laying that monkey-butt on me when I pull my sister’s hair) and race car and a GI Joe and an alien doll and…you know, if you’d consider gastro-intestinal bypass surgery, you’d have a lot more lap to sit on…a Thomas Train set and a Star Wars video and a…uh-oh! Here comes Baldy now. Gotta go. Peace out, Santa!.....AAAAAHHHHH! REMEMBER THAT’S 3487 MILLER DRIVE! BURTON, MICHIGAN! 48657! AAAAAAHHHHH!!!! I’LL LEAVE THE LIGHTS ON FOR YA!”

The most humiliating part of that was going back for my son’s hot dog, which he dropped right between Santa’s legs when I pulled him off of the old elf’s lap. There’s just no cool way to reach for something dropped down there.

Kung Pao Poultry

After the party, I did some Christmas shopping and later that evening took the family out to favorite local Chinese buffet for dinner. As I was cutting up my son’s food, he erupted into hysterical laughter at something I did not see. After I asked him what it was he said, “I saw a funny chicken Daddy!” I looked around but didn’t see anything so I shrugged it off as a figment of his imagination.

A little while later, my son burst into laughter again. I asked him what was so funny and he pointed to a guy a few tables over who was sporting pierced eyebrows, numerous obnoxious tattoos, a ripped up t-shirt and a very large bright red Mohawk haircut. Laughing so hard he almost couldn’t breathe he said, “He looks like a big rooster Daddy!” Then, at a near scream, he roared, “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOOOO!”

I couldn’t help but laugh with him even though it was a thinly veiled attempt to get his father’s ass kicked at his favorite Chinese restaurant.

Red Neck Love

While Christmas shopping, I found myself at a sporting goods shop and thought that I’d browse by the firearms department to see what kind of holiday specials they were running in high-powered weaponry for the “Fuck Peace on Earth” demographic, of which I definitely belonged in after spending fifteen minutes in the outside lot looking for a parking spot. Near the end of counter, in front of the display of Ruger revolvers, was a couple in their mid-50s, decked out in impressive mullets and matching Harley-Davison t-shirts, making out with the intensity of teenagers at their first un-chaperoned excursion to a drive-in movie. She had her tongue shoved so far into her lover’s mouth that I began to think he may have had bisexual tendencies based upon his impressive ability to suppress his gag reflex. Out of morbid curiosity, I found myself unable to resist walking to within earshot of the couple to eavesdrop upon what it was that they were telling each other in between spit-swapping sessions. Sure enough, the guy was heaping all kinds of affection upon his wife in appreciation of the .357 magnum revolver she was getting him for Christmas, the very weapon that, I would put a $50 bet on, she would die at the hands of while her husband was in the throes of a homicidal rage fueled by an overindulgence of home-cooked methamphetamine and warm Schlitz. Soon after I ascertained this, he looked at the ticket in his hand and at the counter above the clerk’s head. Seeing that they had a considerable amount of time before their turn to served, he placed his hand on his wife’s ample bottom and lead her away towards the center of the store, presumably for a session of heavy petting in one of the displayed ice fishing shanties. I have never questioned the US’s lax gun control laws until that very moment. I’m sure guns are used in a lot of ways the manufacturers never intended them to be but not even I, with my overactive imagination, would ever have dreamed that among certain segments of the American population, a handgun could be used in lieu of Viagra.

Detroit Lions vs Green Bay Packers

Should be interesting. Kick off is in two hours. I’m expecting to be lulled to sleep in two hours and fifteen minutes. At least the commercials are fairly entertaining.


Blogger Sacto Ritch said...

I hope that's your correct address cause that's where your Christmas card is going.


8:56 PM  
Anonymous Fade_to_Blah said...

Cant wait to see what the citizens of Detroit do at next weeks home game

7:13 AM  
Blogger JEP said...

3. Neither can I. The atmosphere here in the Motor City is charged with a certain intensity that we usually only feel when the Red Wings are in the running for another Stanley Cup victory, only with reverse polarity. We have a basketball team that has gotten off to a fantastic start and a hockey team that is poised for a great year as well, but all of the sports media here is dominated by the Lions debacle. The “Fi-re Mil-len!” chant goes up in every venue where more than 100 people are gathered in Southeastern Michigan. It was even chanted at Green Bay during Sunday’s game as well as in Colorado over the weekend. Fired coach Steve Mariucci was even given a standing ovation at a Michigan State University basketball game he was attending a couple days ago. Everyone here knows that something is going to happen at the Lions’ home finale this Sunday, though no one knows exactly what. I’m hoping that it is nothing more than humorous antics in the stands but, knowing that this is Detroit, I’m bracing for something worse, something that is sure to give us a great big black eye just over a month before the Superbowl.

9:30 AM  

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