I had my first homosexual experience last friday.

I’ve always considered myself quite the deviant, but this time I raised the bar.

1. I had someone enter the back door.
2. I was on so much drugs I don’t even remember the experience.
3. Once they were finished, I paid them.

Top that, sickos.

Dont look at me. I can feel the sting of your judgement. What adults let people to do to them behind closed doors is none of your business. Unless you pay to download it.

As it went, on Friday a very nice man and a couple nurses went spelunking in my colon to see why my tummy hurt so much a few weeks back.

On the positive side I can now say I have something in common with captain super-blogger Tony Pierce. On the down side I also have something in common with Paris Hilton- since the doctor taped it. With night vision.

Afterwards I was sitting in the waiting area, still a bit giddy from the drugs and thanking all that’s good and holy that I had no memory of the ordeal when the Dr. came to deliver the news. Que awkward moment:

“Good news, it was just hemmoroids.”

“um, that’s good?”

“Oh wait. That’s not your file.”

(shuffling)

“So that’s some other gentleman’s starfish we’re checking out then, Doc?”

“I’m so sorry. Here’s yours- you have a touch of Diverticulosis. Don’t eat nuts or sunflower seeds and you should be fine.”

Poor mortified Doc left in a hurry since the guy with the photogenic pooper was probably the man sitting two chairs away.

Luckily my file contained only a diagram of my intestines, instead of a full photo spread. And I guess I can deal with cutting out nuts. I’ll miss cashews, but let’s be honest- peanuts got old a long time ago.

My advice: don’t make fun of doctors. If you’re not lucky, some day one might decide he’s had enough and stick a camera up your ass.

Links:

• TONYPIERCE.COM: At a point in every person’s life

• EDADKINS.COM: Tragedy Strikes my pooper
• THE ZEROBOSS: It’s Always a Competition

So I’m at a conference. An accounting conference. In hell. I’m sitting in a presentation on effective proposal programs.

Please allow me to add a touch or foreshadowing. “To know ABOUT the giggle loop is to be PART of the giggle loop.” If you don’t understand, watch more BBC.

If you’re anything close to a regular reader of my blog, you have a sense for my humor. It appeals to a certain level of humanity. A very low level. Perhaps then you can understand why this particular presentation was troubled from its inception.

Early on, the presenter stated some phrase which my infantile mind quickly raced to twist to a sexual nature. I immediately turned to the fellow on my right and muttered, “I didn’t know it was going to be one of those presentations. He chuckled.

Then things got a tad bizzare. Here’s a smattering of the topics that would come next:

• Lead Elongation

• Multiple Touchpoints
• Drilling Your Pipeline
• Being Careful Not To Cut Off Your Options
• Hierarchy of leads referred to as graprefruits and mellons

It seemed that the seed I had planted in our minds had grown to a horrfying beanstalk. We could hardly contain it.

Then she reached a whole nother level with an entire section on “Penetration Strategies.” Yes. I know. She then moved on to

• Multiple Positions

• Contacts who are warm and fuzzy
• Points you could dip in oil (totally confused there)
• Peanuts (you have to hear her pronounce it)

I was already fighting an anneurism, but I burst into tears when she mentioned “Wiggle Room.” A man can only take so much.

That’s when she noticed me. It’s also when she stopped her presentation to ask what was wrong. I couldn’t take it. In a room full of marketing professionals and accountants I completely lost it, but managed to spit out, “It’s just… that we find your presentation… a tad… suggestive.”

She turned to the screen where her penetration strategies were laid out. “Oh. I see.” The place actually responded with laughter. Somehow in 30 seconds I had managed to bring the maturity level of the room to something around 6th grade.

Is there anywhere that I’m a good influence?

I stepped off the plane, and into the dumbest nightmare imaginable.

This is Phoenix. It’s going to be somewhere around 732 degrees tomorrow. “oh, but it’s a dry heat.” Uh huh. That makes it better. That’s like saying, “but it’s the good herpes.”

Breezes out here are just depressing. When you grow up somewhere with actual seasons other than just “tollerable” and “hell” you expect a breeze to refresh you. Here, it feels like a hairdryer. One hits me and I just curl into a fetal position and cry. My tears instantly become steam and cook a passing bird.

I’m here for work.

Last year this conference was in New Orleans. It was heaven. Bars on every other corner. Cigar shops on the other ones. It was seedy and dirty and jazz was piping out of every open door. You don’t even want to know how I earned my beads. I felt like i was finally home. I swear I saw a baby with a Maker’s Mark bottle.

This year it’s in Phoenix. I think they fought that last fight scene from episode 3 here. At 3 in the afternoon lava pours from under the streets.

On a positive note, I got to hang out with my buddy Shanti and his chica Abigail. We hit some mexican place and a few margarittas and insano shots later we were sharing life stories. Outside, even though it was midnight, small children and animals were randomly combusting from the heat.

Anyway, I’m here in hell for 3 more days. If there’s anythig you want me to ask Julia Child or Yasser Arafat just let me know.

What do you call a music player where you can’t find your music or even see what’s playing?

Broken?

Not if you’re Apple.

Not only did they come out with the Ipod Shuffle today, but I got my hands on their next big thing- the iCrap. (click for bigger pic.)

People are always telling me, “hey Ed, you’re not funny and your blog sucks.”

And to this i reply, “how to blog? I’m flattered you’d ask me- I guess I could give you some pointers. sure, take a seat while uncle ed spits his A-game.”

But it gets annoying, constantly having to repeat those golden nuggets of bloggery. So finally, once and for all, I present you “So You Want to Clog the Net: ED’s Blogging Manifesto.”

1. Move to Los Angeles. No one wants to hear what went on in Craptown today. They don’t care about you, your dog or Otis the lovable town drunk. They care about LA though. Your blog could consist of a detailed rating of your morning dumps and as long as its called LA’s CRAPPIEST you’re gold.

2. Claim You Were Here First. About once a week, mention you’ve been blogging since like ‘92. Back when you had to hand code it into a calculator.

3. Polarize Your Political Stance. The particular stance is irrelevant. Just take your current one and move it ridiculously to the right or left. Great- now you have friends.

4. Comment Comment Comment. Commit yourself to at least 75 comments a day. Rotate winning phrases like “Nice Blog” or “UR FUNNY!” This is sure to win the love and respect of your fellow bloggers. Refrain from comments like “cheap chewable viagra!” and “HUGE online casino!”

5. Feel The Pressure. The web is a cruel mistress. She’s here for one reason and one only, friend: to suck out your very soul one entry at a time. It’s supposed to become something you hate to come home to. Something looming over your head and draining your creativity. You must understand, blog is not a pretty word.

6. Become A Celebrity. I wasn’t going to add this, but some people demand the easy route. Make it big and people will develop obsessive compulsive habits checking for your updates. The only problem is that chances are if you have maintained any reasonable amount of stardom you are illiterate. In that case, blah blah blah blah you aren’t reading this anyway.

7. You Could Try Working For Microsoft. While they do allow blogging and you’ll get great exposire, I suggest this with great caution. This is risky, as you now have a special place waiting in hell for you. Live it up while you have the chance.

8. Lie Lie Lie and Lie. Nothing puts people so sleep faster than the truth about you. Tell them you’re a playa. Tell them you’re the man. They read this crap because they want to become it- no one wants to become a middle aged divorcee father of two who manages a Mail Boxes Etc. They want to be super-pimp. Tell us about your day, super-pimp. And make it good.

9. When All Else Fails Join a Group. Bloggers like to visit the sites of people who share their interests. Take up a hobby like knitting, fan fiction, RPGs, parenting or being gay.

10. NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER FORGET TO SAVE YOUR WOR

You all know her. She’s the bane of my existence. Check-Out Lady From Hell.

Somehow I lose myself about 20 seconds from finishing every single trip to the grocery store by my house. I’m all done picking stuff out and start towards the checkers when I forget that unspeakable horror lurks in aisle 6… the COLFH.

And without thinking I go right for her. I’m not clued in at first cause she has her back to me- plus I’ve already become engrossed in the latest Benn/Jenn/Brad/Ashton/Demi/Paris crap- or perhaps wondering how the Batboy’s face showed up in a cloud over Waco. But wait- what was that?

The Cackle.

Oh this is great. Craptabulous. I’m in the line of the all-time most annoying check-out lady. The type that opens and reads your greeting cards to you. “Ha. yeah, that’s a good one.” A good one? No a good one would be a card that said “Just run the friggin card across the red beam, genius, before the lady behind me beats you with a sack of potatoes.” That would be a good one.

She’s got the hint of a mullet and the most distracting perpetual cold sore in history. She can turn anything into a full-fledged conversation. ANY thing. “Ooooh. A man who knows how to shop. Way to get those savings.” Kindly shut your face-pit COLFH.

Now I looooove to talk. No surprise there. BUT there is a time and place. Yesterday I was in line with 40 pounds of ice. There was one woman in front of me with ONE item- a case of water. Here’s the scene:

COLFH: Hey there- got some water, eh? Well, let’s see if I can find the bar code.
Lady: Umm. yeah.
COLFH: Mmmmm. Got it.
COLFH: Have you seen our extreme special of the day? Bottles of sprite just 69 cents. (stares at bottle) 69 cents. that’s good.
Lady: Nah.

(COLFH stops the transaction to talk to the check out person next to her)

COLFH: (Mindless banter)
Lady: Um I thought the case was $2.99
COLFH: Nope, $3.99
Lady: But I read a circular
COLFH: Naw, Hon, it must’ve ended or something
Lady: It was for today
COLFH: Naw, it’s $3.99
Lady: Hmmmm… You know a dollar is real important to some people. In some countries it means life or death. Now I guess that kid I sponsor in Ethiopia will have to go without for a month.
COLFH: I could show you the circular-
Lady: No, he’ll manage somehow…
COLFH: Here. Let’s go through it together

(They combine their wits in order to finally answer the question nagging us all- can COLFH read?)

COLFH: Well I’ll be- it’s right there. Lemme spend a minute staring at the barcode…
COLFH: It’s definitely the one.
COLFH: Oh wait- the sale starts tomorrow…. ha. wow. that was great.

(I kick down the potato chip display and skewer the COLFH with a flagpole from the Fourth of July display- no wait- I just stand there and fume.)

Lady: I guess I’m just a hair away from retarded.
COLFH: Same here. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m still breathing. Ha ha ha. Whew. Have a great day.

COLFH: Hello sir, wow- that’s a lot of ice. Pretty cold, huh?
Me: (cold stare of a psychopath)
COLFH: Alrighty, is that gonna be it?
Me: You have no idea.
COLFH: Have you seen our ext-
Me: (interrupting with stare of doom) not now.

COLFH: Well all set- you have a great day sir, blah blah blah lot of ice blah blaah hah inane musings blah blah….

So Heidi and I are at what experienced couples would call an impasse.

We don’t see eye to eye on a particular subject and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Now, I’m not calling it an argument for a few reasons. First, neither of us have intentional hurt the other’s feelings over it- and I respect the fact that she stands by her opinion, I just don’t like it. I dunno how many of our readers have had a similar discussion with their significant others, but let me tell you- don’t open this Pandora’s box unless you’re totally prepared to hear the answer.

Heidi says that if I were to become a flesh-eating zombie that she’d have no problem blowing my brains to kingdom come.

That’s just kind of hard to hear, you know? I mean I asked the question knowing full well that she’d be honest about it but I just don’t look at her the same now. I’d have a heck of a hard time putting her down if she was a zombie.

I don’t know how I could possible reconcile it. There she’d be- all cute and snuggly- my little bunny-bear, except she’d be the walking dead. She’d probably have a little bit of our neighbor hanging on her chin or something, and a touch of the crazy eye- but come on, she’d still be my wife. How could I take a shotgun or a shovel or something to the soulless shell that used to be my wife?

But of course, she says that she wouldn’t think twice. According to her, the moment she catches me feasting on the warm corpse of another human being the bonds of holy matrimony are effectively severed. I don’t know. It just seems cold.

When she says it there’s just this steely resolve in her eye, like she’s already counted the cost. I can tell you this- I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I’d probably keep her locked up in the basement or something. Perhaps send her a neighborhood dog once and a while to keep her happy, but I’d never intentionally send her cute little lifeless body into the sweet hereafter. Maybe it’s a guy thing- we’re far more influenced by looks than women are.

A few times I’ve entertained the idea of letting her munch on a forearm or something in a attempt to join her in zombiedom, but it’s a bridge I don’t want to cross till I come to it. For now, I just have to live with a woman who is fully prepared to finish me off if and when the time comes.

If you can offer any helpful advice or insight, please do.

HA. Well, it seems our friend Dr. Atkins was a fatty in poor health. HA! That’s got to be the best story of 2004. Atkins dieteers are worse than some new religious converts. I half expect to see a couple of them at my door Saturday morning, asking:

“Friend, are you truely happy with your carbs? Have you thought about what you’ll weigh when you die? I was a miserable wreck before Dr. Atkins showed me way out of danishes and into the light.”

Or even better, on the plane…

“Everyone on the Atkins diet raise your hand. Everyone else, you’re crazy.”

They act like its ushering in the second coming. Most of you aren’t even doing it right- you’re just starving their body of the stuff it needs: and why? Because it’s a heck of a lot easier than say, EATING A BALANCED DIET AND, OH I DON’T KNOW, GOING FOR A JOG OR TWO?!?!?? So not only do you put unnecessary strain on your organs with massive loads of protein and cholesterol, you shock it and take away a major energy source in order to lose a few quick pounds. Ugh. Then it’s just a matter of time before you give in to the massive cravings you’ve kick started and you go on a bender eating whole loaves at a time.

Actually, all that isn’t even bad. It’s the fact that you try to tell everyone its the cure to all their problems. Junkies lose weight too. Not only that but they get to eat bread too. Maybe the next one after the South Beach should be the Back-Alley Meth diet. Go promote that one.

I understand we eat too many carbs, so don’t try to educate me on that one. BUT I also don’t want to hear that I should cut out the one constant PART OF EVERY CIVILIZATION’S MEALS SINCE THE BEGINNING OF RECORDED HISTORY because a portly man in poor health wrote a book on it. I’ve stopped trying to cram what makes me happy down people’s throats, if it really works people will go for it. Besides, you don’t need more people to subscribe just to make it seem more valid.

Fads like low-carb diets and Orkut services are teaming up to make the new millennium unbearable already. Next we’re gonna hear that the creators of Friendster are lonely hermits.

Caught the last part of an expose the other night on those kids who nearly beat the crap out of you to sell you magazine subscriptions. You know what I’m talking about. You come home and there’s one in your living room sitting in the dark. “I knew you’d show up some time, Mr. Adkins,” he says, swiveling the chair to face me. “I understand how you deterred my associates who visited your office building today- but how do you plan to MAKE IT PAST ME!” At this he jumps up, throwing back his trenchcoat (IN SLOW MOTION) to reveal a gleaming arsenal of machineguns and anti-aircraft weapons.

I dive behind the livingroom wall JUST AS HE SPRAYS A LINE OF BULLETS right above my head. Scrambling for the kitchen, I dart to the pantry, detecting the faint metal clink clink clink of a stun grenade bouncing around the corner! I slam open the pantry, fumbling for a meat cleaver- or skewers- ANYTHING. All I get is a pizza cutter… AND my sawed off shotgun! I dive thru the window into the backyard just as the grenade takes out all the new italian decor Heidi got to redo the kitchen.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Adkins! I’m in second place to win a trip to Tahiti. If you just get one subscription to Vibe or something I could WIN!!! Don’t you want me to win?”

“Never!!!” I scream, just before I raise the Shotgun to pump a few shots backwards over my head into the kitchen, “It’s all a clever rouse- THERE IS NO TRIP TO TAHITI!” and you were NEVER IN SECOND PLACE!!!.” Silence. I begin to backstep towards the shed…

“So…” he begins as he steps from the bushes behind me. “It seems this game of cat and mouse has come to an end.” Hands up, I drop my gun. I know when I’m beat. “I have your checkbook right here- I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of ordering you seventeen subscriptions to Reader’s Digest. With this in the system, I’m sure to win fir- ahhhhh yes, you and I both know there was no contest. BUT this is just enough to meet my quota and keep my supervisor off my back for one more day. Thank you Mr. Adkins”

Bang. One shot in the back. As he falls to his knees in complete surprise a red bead begins to grow on his chest. “That’s for the Italian decor, Punk.” Heidi was just in time- now we don’t have to figure out who to give all those Reader’s Digests to.

So I gave in to Heidi’s persitant requests and agreed to it. I keep on saying, “let’s wait” and “we’re just not at that point in our lives yet.” But as much as I say that I’m not ready for a new addition to the Adkins household… I caved in on Saturday and reluctantly agreed. I know, I know- it’s not the attitude to have. But you don’t understand. She’s at that point where she longs for a little one to raise and snuggle and play with. Me, I’d rather wait till we’re in a better financial position- and most importantly I just don’t feel ready.

So now it’s all about making it happen. We’ll probably start working on it this weekend. I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not looking forward to it. She’s the one that’s going to have all the fun- I’ll just go along with it, hoping it ends and we can relax in front of the TV. Bad attitude, you say? PPFFFFTTT. Nonsense. I’ve never wanted a cat. But if that’s what it takes to make her happy, so be it.

BUT, here are a couple things I will never take part in.

Thing one
Thing two
Thing three

Go ahead. Call me a bad daddy.

Here’s a little exerpt my buddy Jason and I had earlier concerning the virus and his workplace…

jasonadrian: my norton is finding all kinds of virusses now
EdSAdkinsIII: oh crap
jasonadrian: it keeps popping the liitle message up
EdSAdkinsIII: jeesh
jasonadrian: jeez
EdSAdkinsIII: that sucks
EdSAdkinsIII: did you update the definitions or something?
jasonadrian: yup
EdSAdkinsIII: hows everyone else at chucky cheeses?
jasonadrian: heh
jasonadrian: here at the Plex?
EdSAdkinsIII: yeah
jasonadrian: good
EdSAdkinsIII: i would think that such a IT intensive company would go nuts durring a crazy outbreak
jasonadrian: rite
jasonadrian: yeah
EdSAdkinsIII: sirens go off
jasonadrian: heh
EdSAdkinsIII: foam spraysout of the ceiling
jasonadrian: guys running all over in jump suits
jasonadrian: people leaping onto little carts and zipping around
EdSAdkinsIII: hauling you off for ‘cleansing’
EdSAdkinsIII: chutes open up to suck up the people whose computers are infected
EdSAdkinsIII: wow. we’re sick.
jasonadrian: heh
jasonadrian: a female drone type voice comes over the intercom
jasonadrian: “infection detected. infection detected.
jasonadrian: please report to the decontamination zone.
EdSAdkinsIII: heh
EdSAdkinsIII: you see some disheveled balding guy with glasses hurrying for the elevator with papers falling out of his breifcase
jasonadrian: looking extremely worried
jasonadrian: mutternig “Oh dear, oh dear….”
EdSAdkinsIII: holding it to his chest as the suit guys surround him in front of the elevator
EdSAdkinsIII: dude we think exactly alike
jasonadrian: scary

See, this story deserves so much more than just “Gas can, cigarette cause car explosion.” How can such a tiny blurb accompanied by a collection of pictures accurately depict such a riviting tale of heroicism and self sacrifice? It can’t. So our investigative reporting team here at EDANDHEIDI.com went down to the scene to interview this brave woman.

ED: For those just tuning in, this is Ed Adkins reporting for EDANDHEIDI.com on an incredible story unfolding in our own Reno, Nevada. I’m here with local heroine, Carol Wall, who I’m told earlier today was set to become the latest Nevadan to recieve the prestigous, “Darwin Award”. Now, I’ve got to speak up, since Mrs. Wall is now 90 percent deaf due to almost killing herself and three other people while attempting to light a cigarette today- a cigarette named “fame”.

Carol: (moderately charred) My car is on fire.

Ed: Now it says here that you are not actually retarded. Isn’t that true Mrs. Wall?

Carol: WHAT? Oh yes- I’m technically not retarded. At least not enough to recieve state funding.

Ed: Now, that is amazing. So you are telling me that earlier today, you put an uncovered gas can in the back of your tiny hatchback and then tried to light a cigarette- without the aid of mental retardation? Amazing.

Carol: Well, I always was a dreamer.

Ed: And to boot- you kept the windows up. I’m supprized you even had the mental ability to ignite your little gas-bomb. Any normal person would have succomb to asphyxiation. What kept you going?

Carol: It wasn’t easy, Mr. reporter man. A couple times I came real close to just takin a nap-

Ed: While driving?

Carol: You can’t take little things like that into account when you’re going for the gold, friend. My eyes were on the prize- that shiny Darwin thingy just a’ gleamin’ on my mantle.

Ed: Or the mantle of your next of kin, naturally. Woman you are an inspiration. Here’s to your next attempt at greatness. On location in Reno, this has been Ed Adkins with an exclusive segment of EDANDHEIDI. Back to the newsroom.

Special shout-out to Jerz & Mrs. Jerz for the article.

I used to think that if I was black I would like to be huge. Like a big old club bouncer at some blues place. With a deep scratchy Barry White kind of voice. Always makin’ obscure musical and historical references that only other older black people understood. And I’d get the newspaper every day from the same street-wise vendor, who would trade musical trivia questions or odd funk-sounding riddles just before we tapped fists in a cool, black secret-handshake sort of way. Plus, I’d know everyone in the whole city, and they’d all say “whaddup” as they passed by- and we’d exchange knowing glances. At my place I’d have all kinds of hard-to-find jazz recordings on vinyl, and a few black-and-white pics of me with people like Maya Angelou or Thelonious Monk.

Now I figure I’d just wanna be the smoothest man alive.

Everyone seems to do one of these, and I figure that the following story should count as mine.

I have no idea how long I have. It scares me when I think about wasting my life. It should scare me out of laziness, but most of the time it doesn’t. I think I ought to take a lesson from Fred, and simply enjoy the act of living. It may seem like it would lead to little, but it’s usually what motivates me to achieve. Worry and laziness waste time, and show that I’m not all that excited about the time I have. Thanks Fred- Here’s to an incredible 2004.

(An exerpt from an internal dialogue from earlier today)

EGO: That’s my man.

As in Saddam’s vacation plans. Looking for news on the capture, go here.

Authorities were rather surprised, though, by his drastically altered appearance.

…don’t do it this way:

So, this old guy is at home watching Death Wish. (mad, sick, crazy foreshadowing going on here, folks.) As these things happen, a thief waltzes in and grabs said old guy’s wife, holding some garden shears TO HER THROAT. Does the old guy freak out? NO! He’s like, “OMG this is SO AWESOME! Not only am I watching the most KICK BUTT vigilante on TV but now I get to TOTALLY WAIL ON THIS IDIOT.” Or something like that. I’m sure he was so pumped- He’s all, “So there, sonny, you think an old man could go get his wallet? heh heh heh (wheese)” and the 26 year old with a curtain tied around his head is all, “Sure.”

MEANWHILE, the old guy passes up the wallet for a HUGE MASSIVE 357 MAGNUM, or something (it never mentions the make or model of the pistol but come on). Back to the action, the old guy comes diving out of his bedroom shooting with two guns at once, with doves and crap flying all around- and there’s a fire somewhere. Plus, glass is shattering everywhere, with water and stuff too- ALL IN SLOW MOTION. (do i even need to mention the KILLER SOUNDTRACK?)

The wife pulls away and the kid gets riddled with bullets AND THEN HE EXPLODES all sick and there’s this nasty blood splatter all over the wall and the old guys face. That’s when his wife is like, “OMG you are SO AWESOME! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!” Moral to the story? Besides how NOT to commit a robbery? I think it’s obvious- Don’t you DARE take violence off TV. Your life and the lives of those you love just may depend on it.

Last night we were about to crash and I struck up a little conversation about aging- It went something like this:

Ed: We’re going to live forever, you know. (The happier life gets together the more terrified I am about one of us having to outlive the other. Neurotic, I know. I think it has to do with all Heidi’s stories from the retirement home.)

Heidi: What?!

Ed: When we get rich and famous. We’ll be able to live forever.

Heidi: You can’t do that. Even if we get rich.

Ed: Oh yes. By the time we’re rich, you’ll be able to buy it. They’re making these anti-aging pills. I bet only the rich will be able to afford them.

Heidi: But you won’t be able to live forever.

Ed: Ahhh, but at least long enough that death will be a welcomed release.

Heidi: You’re retarded.

Warning: Long Post.

You know those things you say that you probably shouldn’t? Heh. Well, in certain circles I’m kind of known for saying things that are sometimes deemed “inappropriate” or “disrespectful.” I don’t know, perhaps people need to lighten up or get rid of certain archaic notions like “respecting the dead.” So the other day Heidi and I are performing our favorite Saturday tradition, yardsailing, and She comes up with the idea to just drive around until we find one. I prefer to use a slightly more scientific method- it entails plotting out a course of the city, mapping out the fastest route to visit sales posted in the paper and using my palm. I then map out the fastest course to the nest address while Heidi checks the current house for the items on our list. It’s a highly effective method, usually getting us to about twenty or more before noon. That’s the one I’m pretty sure Chuck Norris uses.

Like I said tho, that particular Saturday Heidi voted for mental telepathy instead. After about 30 minutes of a whole lot of nothing, we were beginning to, shall we say, “fight.” I was merely trying to remind her that my way was still an option. So, we find a sign to a yard sale. It’s pointing in the opposite direction of us. I turn us around. the next sign is pointing is on an intersection, kind of pointing diagonally. I think it was the third sign pointing skyward that finally elicited a reaction. “Those signs are retarded.” I kind of over emphasize the “ard” portion so its more like retaaaaarrrrrdddded. “Look at them, there scribbled all over the place and the last one pointed up- it’s a yard sale in space!” Now, Heidi is starting to think I’m making fun of the psychic lottery method for finding yard sales.

“Honey, come on, stop it- if you just followed the signs.”

“Then we’d be flying.”

“Fine. Just do whatever.” Now we were fighting over the retarded signs. Soon, tho, as we began to circle southwest Reno, she came around. “Boy, those things are pretty retarded- they’re all scribbled and have little words all over them. It’s like a little kid did’em.” We marveled at how much time must have gone into such crappy signs. Soon it was more of an adventure or a challenge. We weren’t about to let a couple tard-o signs keep us away- we were going to find this yard sale.

It didn’t let up either. All the way there the signs were a jumbled, misdirecting mess. It became hilarious and the challenge had re-forged our marital bonds. We were no longer battling each other but the challenged signs. We pull up and get out of the truck. “Finally,” I said, “we get to meet the retards who made those signs.” We walk up the driveway passing a few somber yard-sailors along their way out. From the distance it doesn’t look like a huge bounty, but there’s a bunch of people in the garage.

It’s not till we come up on the garage that we are confronted with the incredible truth of our journey, and all the careless words. They’re retarded. Everyone. It’s some group home- and their doing a fundraiser. “Thank you for coming to our yard sale,” one tells me as another lets me know he’ll help me find anything I’m looking for. I’m looking for a way out. Somewhere I can go to laugh my head clean off. After a quick perusal we’re off to the truck to explode. It turns out even Heidi couldn’t keep it in.

I know. We’re horrible. Before marrying me, I’m sure that she wouldn’t have found that as funny. But, you know what? It was. It was stinking hilarious. Not that people are challenged- that’s not it. It’s the whole morning, its the silly fight, it’s the irony of all that talk about the sign writers being retarded and then WHOA- it turns out to be true, and it’s the fact that we shouldn’t be laughing about it and yet we are.

We’re going to use her method for a while- I’m cool with it now.

Oopsy. anyone notice this post? It seems that the webmaster of that teen politics site I referenced took issue. Well, Mr. Johnny Galbraith- I wish to continue our dialogue (here). Kudos for starting your website- I respect you for putting the time and effort into something you believe in. But, like anyone I respect, I feel no qualms poking fun at you and your site. Heck, mine looks like a cross between an altoids ad and a brochure for dorkdom. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that it’s ok when people make fun of you. Especially when their website looks like the Fourth of July threw up.