Look Larry, I totally know it was you who bit me so you can drop the whole act.  And, just because I’m talking to you now, don’t think I’m ever going to forgive you for what you did.  I’m still totally pissed about that scar you left on my ankle that seriously jacked up my butterfly tattoo.  So, don’t for even one second think I don’t hate you, but like, being a werewolf is totally hard, and you like totally owe me so…

Okay, so I know at midnight, on full moons, I turn into a werewolf and all.  I’m totally following what you’re saying there, but is my werewolf curse on like Daylight Saving Time?  Am I going to be fuzzing out an hour earlier for the next five months, or is it automatically going to adjust like my Blackberry?  Cause honestly, I’d really appreciate knowing if I’m going to miss the last half of Conan all winter.  The guest interviews are totally my favorite part.

Do you go to a veterinarian or is there like some special werewolf dentist or something?  Cause, my fillings keep popping out when the whole fang things starts, and it is, like, so annoying.  And seriously, why do animals’ heads have to be so hard?  I keep chipping my teeth on the neighborhood cats.  And raccoons.  And campers.  I can’t even smile any more or everyone will think I’m a meth-head.

Do you know where I can get like some really good stretchy pants?  The first month, I like totally ruined my jeans.  And then the second time, I was wearing my boyfriend’s pajama pants and they like totally blew out and then I was all like butt naked and dirty and stuff.  So like, where do you go to get your werewolf pants?  I thought like Walmart would carry them, but the old lady just looked at me like I was retarded when I asked.

Um, do you know if a bullet has to be like totally silver, or sterling silver, or just like a little silver if someone’s trying to kill me?  Cause, there’s like this little doucher kid in my history class that’s all upset cause I supposedly ripped his best friend’s face off and then ate it in front of him last month and he keeps going on and on about making a silver bullet and avenging his friend.  Totally lame, I know.  Anyhow, he’s like poor and stuff so I don’t think his family has any real silver, but I wanna make sure.

Gawd, Larry!  Don’t you know anything?  Is there like some other girl werewolves I can ask?  Cause, I mean, you’re all gross and everyone hates you already, so this isn’t an issue for you, but I seriously need to get the shaving situation under control.  Like, ASAP.

How can I be sure?  Well, if you tell anyone, I will totally effing kill you, but last month when I woke up in the woods, you and your fat ass and pathetic little wiener were all like spooning me and shit.  It was so nasty.

Really, Larry?  You’re actually admitting you’d have sex with a werewolf as a human?  That is so nasty, Larry.  I bet you would, you perv.  But, I know you were a werewolf cause you were all naked and dirty and in the woods.  Plus, you had a rabbit head hanging out of your mouth.

No, Lar-ry, that’s not awesome.  You like totally owe me an apology cause I’m pretty sure you forced me to do it with you. 

Well, that’s not how I remember it.  But even if I was the one who jumped your bones, it was totally under false pretenses because I didn’t know who you were at the time and I assumed all werewolves were hot guys like in New Moon, but you’re totally not.  So, just a warning, but if you so much as come within a hundred yards of me, I’m gonna like rip your arms off. 

Whatever, Larry.  I had to get a rabies shot thanks to you.  And so help me God, if you like gave me werewolf herpes or something, I’m totally gonna kill and eat your family.

[All of the following are the sweet nothings whispered to me by my dear wife.]

“If I’m bored and want a good laugh, I’ll read your mind.”

“You know how Michael Phelps has a body perfectly built for swimming?  You have a body perfectly built for shitting.  Great ass to face ratio.  If only it were an Olympic sport.”

“You’re a habitual bitch…a ubiquitous bitch.”

[Seeing our cat diligently sweeping up her food crumbs around her dish with her paw for several minutes]

“I think we have a cat with obsessive-repulsive disorder.”

What’s a Turkism? Find out here.

“If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the English language.” -Burcu

If two wrongs don’t make a right, try three.

-Laurence J. Peter

I would not describe myself as a pioneer of the internet by any means.  A pioneer of Chinchilla-Space Exploration, yes, but the internet…no.  I generally wait a good year after something is popular to actually start using it (or in the case of having your own blog, three or four years), so I doubt I’m making any momentous discoveries when I come across a website I’ve never seen before and really enjoy.  So forgive me if you’ve all been to the sites I mention a thousand times over already.

But just in case…

Did you know there’s this thing called Twitter?  It’s like this really popular bird-watching enthusiast site.  Apparently, all the kids are talking about it. 

Okay, I’m not that clueless.  I’m already all too familiar with that scourge of the web that allows you to bore all your friends, family, and followers with the most mundane and banal moments of your daily existence.  But did you hear about this one?

It Made My Day

It’s a humorous little submission site that celebrates all those little victories of daily life.  Some better than others, but pretty consistently funny.

For example:

My friends brother’s Municipal League baseball team is named the Stepdads. Seeing as none of the guys on the team are actual stepdads, She inquired about the name. He explained, “Cuz we beat you, and you hate us.” IMMD

For some head-scratching retail-oriented humor, try Not Always Right.  It’s like free therapy for anyone who has ever worked in customer service.

Enjoy!  Or, don’t.

“Mock my words.” 

(Mark my words.)

“Don’t get your pennies in a bunch.”

(Don’t get your panties in a bunch.) 

[After she insisted that panties in a bunch didn’t make sense, I asked how pennies did.  The explanation: “You know, like when you have way too many pennies in your pocket.”]

[Making loud, strange gargling/yelling sounds]

“Who am I?  Guess.” 

[I try to guess and fail.] 

“I’m a Chihuahua.”

[Puzzled]

“You know, from Star Wars.”

Les: “Bye guys, I’m heading out for the afternoon.  Going on a road trip to Cedar Rapids.”

Burcu: “You are?  Really?”

Les: “Yeah, why?”

Burcu: “You’re going to see the rabbits?”

Les: “Yeah, I have to go to Cedar Rapids.”

Burcu: “You have to?”

Les: “Yeah, for work.”

Burcu: “Huh.  How far do you have to go to see the rabbits?”

Les: “Iowa.”

Burcu: “Oh…really?  Okay.”

What’s a Turkism? Find out here.

“If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the English language.” -Burcu

My wife has surpassed her 36th week of pregnancy, which pretty much means that should the Shrub choose to exit, she can.  But first, she’ll have to realize that the exit is not through the belly button, which the actions of the past couple months would suggest this is a fact she is unaware of.

Being fully immersed in preparation as part of the Official Countdown to Go-Time, we utilized the weekend to get all the little things in place – baby clothes washed, hospital bag packed, and batteries for the myriad (and sometimes diabolical) devices designed with the purpose of distracting and/or entertaining our child in the months to come.

While I’m a big sucker for anything that has multicolored flashing lights (Oh Sweet Heaven, the lights!  The glorious, glorious lights and their blinking!) and digital synthetic music (Muzak Mozart) or nature sounds (Chirp on, robo-cricket!), one item in particular may be my all-time favorite: a “music center” that attaches to the corner of our bassinet.  Why, you ask?  Simple.

Not only does this “music center” play tunes and sounds at an auditory-assaulting volume (it is kind enough to offer three sound levels: OFF, SHRIEKING BANSHEE, and PRISON-GRADE EAR SODOMY), it plays, of all things, what I am almost certain is the Saudi Arabian national anthem.  [Note: Upon further analysis into Middle Eastern national anthems, I believe the tune more closely resembles a jauntier interpretation of Yemen's national anthem.]  The song that follows it immediately conjures up images of mistreated bears on tricycles in shadowy tents with depressing, low-wattage lighting and vodka fumes on the wind.

And the “nature” sounds!  Oh, the idyllic return to Eden that these sounds capture!  Thanks to one of the options, I’m certain I have a fairly good idea of what it would sound like to drown.  Violently.  I also know now what it would feel like if I were stuck in a recurring Groundhog Day-like cycle.  Except the cycle lasts not a day, but a second and a half.  And I’m sitting next to a very obnoxious bird.  And the bird is being strangled.

The creme de la creme of the “music center’s” features, however, is easily the function that allows parents to record their own voices for playback, apparently to calm an upset child.  Reasonably good idea in theory, but in practice…it converts the nice, soothing, HUMAN tones of a loving parent into the lifeless, expressionless, mechanized inflections of a Death Bot 3000.  

I think the vast majority of parents can immediately recognize that the sounds emitted by the “music center” upon playback would cause permanent psychological damage to human children.  But me?  I’m filled with glee.  Thanks to a bit of exaggerated stiltedness in my speech, my baby girl is going to have the most terrifyingly robotic rendition of Rock-a-Bye Baby ever recorded.

I am free of all prejudices. I hate every one equally.

-W. C. Fields

I’m left seriously doubting my ability to elevate humor and its placement, as far as importance is concerned, in our typically tragic-oriented minds (See the About page for a discussion of Hyer’s Spirituality of Comedy).

Why?

Because, when I look over at my Tag Cloud, the most prevalent topics are:

Boobs

Jokes

Pirates

True, this just about sums up my interests, but still…

[Sigh]

I’ve come a long way, baby.  I entered a whole new world in my understanding of breasts.

As we arrive at the one month countdown till the Shrub (my nickname for our human, not plant, baby) arrives, Monday evening found us in a course offered at the hospital on breastfeeding.

First, some initial highlights of the course:

A pregnant woman and her husband had just entered the classroom before the course started when the instructor inquired, “Are you here for breastfeeding?”

The husband, without missing a beat, replied, “No, I ate before I came here.”

Truly not fair that some husbands get the perfect set-up to jokes, while others are left to quietly devise comical answers for a wide range of scenarios that go left unasked.

Also, thanks to the video in the course that had me biting the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing (not due to the prevalence of nipples and the stuffing of said nipples and hearty helpings of boob into the gaping maws of ravenous infants), but from the outrageous Australian accent narrating the video (reminded me of Murray, the manager, from Flight of the Conchords, and what receiving “braystfeeding” advice from him would be like).  I still don’t know why we were watching an Australian video as opposed to an American one (particularly when it suggested seeking assistance from the Australian Board of Breastfeeding should we have difficulties), but I suppose that says something about the modesty, i.e. prudishness, of our country when it comes to breasts.

On the bright side…

I learned a great deal about breasts.  First off, I had always assumed babies simply sucked on the end of the nipple to feed.  Turns out they choke down a whole mouthful of boob to get the milk flowing. 

Very impressive, babies.  Very impressive.  I applaud your tenacity and go-get-em spirit.

Some of you may be laughing or mocking my lack of knowledge on this front, but I blame Western civilization.  If boobs were out all the time, all this knowledge would be readily apparent.  So, thanks a lot, Western civilization.  You made a boob out of me as far as boobs go.

The downside of this course…

I now am cursed with viewing breasts, pretty much the only evidence I’m willing to consider as proof that a God may exist and love us above all else, as not just beautiful, bouncy play things that bring joy and happiness to life, but as food sources.  Truly fucks with the wiring of the male brain.  So thanks.  Way to turn me back to atheism, Boobs, by providing an essential life function (other than pure joy) to the most joyous things on earth.

On the other hand, it also makes boobs just that much more awesome. 

They provide life. 

They provide joy. 

They simply make life joyous.

All hail the Almighty Breast!

Plumes of terminal maples

drown the gravel road

beneath cobweb skies

with winter’s perfume on the wind.

I’m lost

deciphering her shy autumnal glances

and weathering

her vernal stares.