He's really showing us what a man with a cannon in his chest can do!

One costume down, two to go.

If your costume is going to have a message, it might as well be to the point. Especially if your only 23 inches tall.

Peter Peter Pumpkin Destroyer

Certain members our quiet Alexandria parish go out of their way each year to destroy Halloween. Some are well-intentioned busy bodies who leave sacks of candy on your doorsteps weeks before the 31st with notes that instruct you to pay it forward forward until everyone in the neighborhood has sacks of candy. (We did not comply because we are shallow and hate forced social interaction) Others are ill-intentioned adult grifters who carry their own adult-sized pillowcases and demand their own candy after their poorly-costumed child have gotten theirs. (An Insane Clown Posse t-shirt is not a costume.)

And then there are the squirrels.

Last year, I mentioned that I was unaware that squirrels craved pumpkin flesh the way Bunnicula craves carrot juice. For a week now, out entire neighborhood has been ruined by the carcasses of jack-o-lanterns. They rot on the sidewalk and are later run over by lawn mowers leaving an orange, pulpy mess on everything. It’s gross.

But it’s also the way things are. Squirrels are going to eat pumpkins because squirrels like tasty things and pumpkins are tasty as shit.* We don’t leave other food stuffs on our front steps and then expect them not to get eaten. In fact, our insane neighbor message board is rife with people complaining about rats and crows and, I swear to God, buzzards getting into peoples trashcans. Why is everyone surprised that our delicious gourds are slowly being gnawed to death after leaving them outside for 3 weeks?

Not me.

Once I came to accept this fact, I realized there is no reason why someone couldn’t exploit this situation. Why couldn’t man and squirrel work together to create Halloween excitement instead of destroying it? Accordingly, this year I have decided to embrace our furry demolitionist friends. Halloween should be about interspecies teamwork.**

So, without further ado, I present Project Squirrel-o-lantern.

Start with a standard $4.99 Safeway pumpkin.



My contribution was very simple. All we need is your basic eyes, nose, and mouth. I stuck with rectangles because it’s well documented that squirrels hate right angles. My fuzzy associate will do all he can to remedy the sharpness of my design.



Then I just re-introduced the pumpkin into the wild. (I tossed in a few bread crumbs to tempt my partner away from the dozens of other cucurbitaceous temptations around the neighborhood.)

Sure enough, I awoke the next morning to find my Squirrel-o-lantern collaborator hard at work.



Well done squirrel! But I was a little concerned about the oral fixation. The eyes and mouth needed some work too. So I stuffed a gag into the Squirrel-o-lanterns mouth in an effort to encourage other parts of the project to be explored.

Again, success!



Humans find symmetry attractive. They find asymmetry disconcerting. With the obvious effort extended toward making the eyes uneven and unnaturally large, it’s clear that the squirrels in our neighborhood have at least a basic understanding of human psychology. The layering is a nice touch too.

But the real test is to see how it looks when illuminated.



Honestly, I don’t think this could have worked out any better. I think I can safely say that this is the best looking Squirrel-o-lantern ever presented to the trick-or-treating public.

In conclusion, I want to thank my squirrel friend for helping out this year. I know we’ve had a strained relationship in the past. And if the dog ever does manage to catch you or one of your relatives, I will still allow him to violently shake your body until your neck snaps. But until then, know that I respect your talents and look forward to working with you again next year.




*Why is the idea of homemade roasted pumpkin seeds so much better than the reality of homemade roasted pumpkin seeds?

**You ring the doorbell, I’ll light the bag of poo on fire.

It's kinda like when I fell asleep driving and almost crashed into one of those stores at the beach that sells towels and and shot glasses and fudge

The driving unpleasantness from Saturday was the result of a trip to see the G’s parents in Faraway, VA. But it wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing that happened that night.

Narcoleptic is how I’d best describe our functioning condition. And we haven’t had much time to ourselves. So when I came of from her parent’s basement after a beer or two and saw her standing with her back to me, I thought I’d be cute and flirtatious.

Remember, we are both very sleepy.

But that’s still no excuse FOR PINCHING MY MOTHER-IN-LAW’S ASS!!!!!


AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

Driving Under Teh Influence

My favorite X-Files episode is the one about the 3 inbred Peacock brothers who keep a limbless Mother Peacock alive under a bed to ensure their incestuous Peacock line. It was so terrifying that Fox only aired it twice and the second time featured major parental warnings due to frakked-up content.

My second favorite is Drive, the one where Malcolm in the Middle’s dad has to keep moving in a westerly direction in a paneled station wagon or his brains will blow out his ear. Or:

"Police arrest a man driving dangerously, moments before his wife's ear explodes. Leaving the police station, he kidnaps Mulder and forces him to drive West, whilst (really?) Scully attempts to prevent him from suffering the same fate."

• “Driving dangerously”
• “Wife’s ear explodes”
• “Suffering”

Yeah. That pretty much sums up our Saturday night.

We now live in a world where sanity is only maintained if our car is in constant motion. Red lights will be run, lanes will be changed unexpectedly, and the longer route will be mapped to make sure we’re traveling at least 40mph at all times.

Seriously, get the fuck out of our way. Our ears are about to explode here and we're going either to crash our car into yours or drive off a bridge. It's in your hands.

elders

two nuggets of wisdom imparted upon me by my father this afternoon:

1. "That guy Jeff from the flipping houses reality show on Bravo? What an asshole."

2. "The hot lady on the cooking show? Padma Hot Whats-her-name-shi? She is really, really hot."

Tot Trot

I’ve been to enough weddings by now to know that no mater how bad the lone water serving waiter stinks, I shouldn’t just drink wine when I’m thirsty. Even when the reception is at a winery and the waiter is especially stank. I also shouldn’t wear H&M slim fitting European-style shirts when I dance because they will split down the back like I had just pushed a teenager out of the way of a gamma radiation explosion.

Obviously, I still did both of those things on Saturday night. My punishment was not limited to stumbling around the Shenandoah Valley looking for a store willing to sell a man wearing a suit and no shirt some hangover-curing aspirin. I was also forced to eat breakfast at a place that served pork chops as a side dish.

But I discovered two things:

- Dry heaves are good for exercising your core.
- This.



Big Number 753 is really haulin’ tail. The caption is just vague enough to imply that this kid just run 10 miles. But it's specific enough to say that he’s only two years old. Is that what we’re doing now with toddlers? Making them wear tank tops and racing? I'm not really the competitive type but if I ever have a son this means he's going to have to hit the track the day after he can lift that giant melon of his off the ground. Do they make baby treadmills?



Also, Jesus and Big George will sell your house in 90 days.

roar

So, this? Kind of totally disgusting, right? I mean, just... gross. I hadn't even heard of the term until someone mentioned it a few months ago and just.... a thousand shivers up my spine. Nast.

Here's an idea. Don't buy me anything. Save that money for the imminent demise of our savings and social expenditures (hello, daycare. field trips. braces. tuxedo rental for prom. college tuition. junior year abroad. wedding. paying for my early retirement. yacht. helicopter pad. etc.) Instead of gaudy jewelry or $300 designer jeans two sizes bigger than what I used to wear or a diaper bag made from the skin of an exotic and/or mythical creature, I requested that please, for the love of god, don't get me anything. Get me: three hours of sleep when I am a sobbing mess. A glorious present such as that cannot be bought.

The N. complied. Kind of.

He did gift me something so awesome I find it difficult to describe my delight. The unfortunate part of said gift is that it doesn't fit.

For the first time in months, it is not girth, it is length. I am too tall for the youth size large glow-in-the-dark tan and green dinosaur print fleece footie pajamas.

That's right. I said youth size large glow-in-the-dark tan and green dinosaur print fleece footie pajamas.

However, they would definitely fit a slim-ish female or male under, say, 5'8".

The tag is off (doh) but I swear - brand new. Never worn. And now, up for grabs! I suppose I should make this some sort of contest or something, really make you work for these wonders of apparel, but I hate it when blogspot blogs pull that shit. First come, first serve. It may take a while for me to package them up and ship them to you, but the wait will be worth it. Imagine a cold winter cuddled up in this beauty. GLOW IN THE DARK. IMAGINE A CAMPING TRIP IN THIS!

i HATE dolls made from corn husks.

technology has decided to make us it's bitch lately. the cordless phone is busted, the modem on the computer is working only sporadically, my cellphone is (finally) working again, kind of, after battling Verizon for the right to buy anew battery, and i spent last night/this morning watching 3 am tv programming on rabbit ears. soon, you will be able to visit the entire pyggie family on a compound somewhere in appalachia where we churn butter to sell to tourists and weave our own clothes on a loom made from gathered twigs. also, no buttons.

This seems like a marketing goldmine.

You know what else Under Armor wicks away?

Regurgitated milk.

And could I get one that handcuffs to my wrist?

You know how when you buy expensive medical equipment or exotic African fruits or a handgun with attachable laser targeting and a modified clip allowing for 22 rounds, they come in Pelican cases with custom foam inserts? Or maybe you don’t know.

Either way, do you think they could modify a large foam insert to fit a human snuggly into a small compartment? Not even a large human. Say a human the size of a Boston Terrier. And the compartment would be roughly the size of a crib. And while the case would need to be soundproof it would allow a free flow of air. Because seriously, enough of the crying already.

dollyween

Mattos brings up the NPR piece on "Jolene", not my favorite Parton song*, but a good one. Timely because today I was IM-discussing the fact that what I really want to be is the cast of "9 to 5" for Halloween. I would play Doralee, naturally. Given my haircolor and sweet as pie southern disposition and whatnot.

In the market for a Dabney type, I highly doubt the N will be willing.



* ("Silver Dagger," in case you were wondering.)

Unless, of course, we could get our oven up to 4000 degrees Kelvin?

Minister of Finance Hank Paulson gave some speech today that I didn’t understand. But he did use my favorite new word of the past week, which I also don’t totally understand: illiquidity.

As in “Boy, I would sure like to drink this inanimate carbon block. To bad carbon’s illiquid, for all intents and purposes, or I’d guzzle it down”

It involves thousands and thousands of feathers

All the grandma-generated traffic has inspired me to go back and look at all those ridiculous Flickr photos from our adorable youth. Like 2007. Who goes to weddings anymore? No one, that’s who! Stylish haircuts? Are you kidding me? No time!!

The average number of views break down like this –

Pictures of me – 4
Picture of food -7
Pictures of scenic vacations - 8
Pictures of my beautiful wife – 11
Pictures of the dog – 35
Pictures from weddings where girls show cleavage - 57
Pictures of the potato sack – 94

I’d assume that’s pretty normal. But there are 4 shots that lap the rest several times over. Naturally, the all have to do with sex fetishes. I’m hesitant to mention them directly since only one is a picture of me and its relatively common turn-on. The other three are of people who read this site. Two are a little kinky but wouldn’t raise any eyebrows in a Savage Love column. But the fourth one is absolutely absurd and I’ve been asked several times to allow it be grouped with some other weird-assed shit. So far, I’ve said no.

So far.

Have fun trying to figure it out, ladies.

It's official

We officially have a gecko problem. Unlike some of the other pests we have recently discovered in the neighborhood, these bloodsuckers* are actively trying to get into the house. Now anytime I open the back door they just sprint in like little Usain Bolts.

*hopefully not.

C.O.O.L

I’m not sure what the big deal is with this new requirement. I just discovered that it’s already been implemented by the company that makes my favorite brand of gummy worms.



The FDA now has an incredibly powerful tool the next time they need to track down the origin of the latest Sour Patch Kids/salmonella outbreak. (Hint: It’s probably that nasty Lee Highway Multiplex)

Gordon

Of all the expensive furniture (Ikea) we’ve bought since moving in 4.5 years ago, the most valuable of all has turned out to be that stupid exercise ball that previously did nothing but get in the way. It has suddenly become invaluable and if I could turn all the sofa’s and chairs into inflatable, ab-maxing rubber balls, I would. Somebody sure loves that bouncy nonsense.

I was trying to bounce and read a magazine with one handed in the basement last night when something small and dart-y caught my eye. It was small and skirted along the baseboard, pausing for 3 or 4 seconds before moving on. Damnit. With all the rain we’ve been having and all the blogs I’ve been reading I’m not surprised that we have insects in the basement. But I’m certainly not happy about it.

The occasional spider in the bathtub is fine. But I hate bugs that only come out when they think no one’s looking. A cricket that jumped on my face one night at the G’s old apartment was one of the reasons I didn’t like spending the night there. That and she lived in a part of Virginia that had a 540 area code.

We were very quiet and un-fussy bouncing on our little rubber ball so my instinct to spring up and squish it were suppressed. We just sat there and I tried to kill it with my laser eye vision. But as I stared, I started to question my snap assumption that this was, in fact, an insect. It wasn’t at all blattoid in its movements and seemed to have a confidence that that wasn’t betrayed by frantic, kitchen light-fearing scurrying.

I’ll be damned.

When my hands were finally free, I got up and discovered we do not a have roach or silverfish problem. No we don’t.

WE HAVE A FRAKKING REPTILE PROBLEM! THERE ARE GECKOS LIVING IN OUR BASEMENT!!!1 GECCCKKKKOOOOOOSSS!!!!!!



But geckos aren’t native to Virginia, you say. Neither are snakehead fish. But that won’t stop them from nom-nomming on you pets when you take them down to play in the Potomac. In fact, according to the internets, your common house gecko immigrated from Asia and are quite common throughout the southern United States and Philadelphia, for some reason. Now Alexandria, Virginia too.



I mentioned to the G a few weeks back that I saw what I thought was a salamander near a storm drain at the end of the block. Salamanders make sense, seeing that they are native to the area. But geckos? In our basement? Come on. I caught the little feller under a glass (which triggered his defense mechanism and caused his tail to fall off) and tossed him outside. It’ll probably mate with that thing I saw in the storm drain and then we’ll have an Arachnophobia-style problem on our hands.

But at least they aren’t roaches. And they eat probably eat roaches.

I went out and bought some Chinese needle snakes, anyway, since they love eating geckos. And in a few more days, I’m gonna get me some of those gorillas that thrive on snake meat. And come winter, the gorillas will just freeze to death.

Problem solved.