My problem is that I’m too nice. When I was on my honeymoon and the pizza waitress served up a big ole pepperoni pizza instead of the mushroom one I ordered, and my brand new husband said, “Can’t you just eat it?” I dined on greasy pepperoni and smiled graciously.
When the movie rental place suggested I pony up $50 in late fines for movies I knew I returned on time, I smiled, handed the clerk my membership card, and walked away forever.
When the fat lady in the tight (sheer) bathing suit wanted to be friends at the local amusement park. . .well, I ran and hid behind my kids on that one, but now I AM the fat lady in the tight (not sheer) bathing suit, so you see how it works.
The movie rental place went out of business. The pizza place has become a shop for cheap souvenirs. The husband is now known as The Defendant and has been replaced with a dashing pirate captain.
So I never saw the need to go all Rambo in the face of suburban unrest.
Until now.
Out in Texas, where the bad times are bigger, Taco Bell jacked up the price on the crunchy beef burritos an additional fifty cents. And if burritos are crunchy here in South Carolina, I can just imagine the crackle they carry deep in the heart of Texas.
And the man ordered seven. SEVEN BURRITOS. I don’t let my kids eat a taco without a license, and this man wanted to wolf down seven burritos surrounded by innocent byproducts.
The price gouging would add an extra three and a half bucks to his total. Highway robbery on a grand scale! So it’s perfectly understandable that this man—we’ll call him the Burrito Bandito just because it sounds big enough for Texas—brought out the firepower when he found out about the price increase.
Now I can work up a perfectly good pout over the price of gasoline, but this is gas of another color. When he headed out to his trusty energy-efficient ride and laid out his assault rifle on the sunroof, the Taco Bell manager, who probably has never played the role of bullseye, even on TV, locked up and called the police.
After a three-hour standoff at a nearby motel that did not provide room service, not even chips and salsa, to our amigo, the affair was settled.
The tacos still cost the same, but now there’s a bigger price. And the Burrito Bandito never did get his authentic American Mexican food. Which is probably a good thing.
Because, really, seven burritos? Now that’s assault with a deadly weapon.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Rambo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rambo. Show all posts
Monday, March 21, 2011
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The O's Have It
The New Yorker recently got in big fat trouble for splashing a picture on the magazine's cover displaying a dashing Barack Obama decked out in the loose robes of an Arab, rapping knuckles with tough-love-Barbie Mrs. Obama who’s rocking haute terrorist couture.
Now I don’t keep up with the goings on of men generally, since I have basically no interest in how many channels I can watch simultaneously on television, but if dressing my husband in matching hat and gown will get me a tank of gas I can afford, I’ll be fighting the crowds in the Stout Ladies Department at Wal-Mart to find Bill Dear a suitable outfit.
Other than that, I’m not going to comment on B-Ob’s little ensemble, because my attention is on his Rambo-ready wife. As far as I’m concerned Michelle Obama is the one to watch. Anybody who has a child that's thrown a DEFCON 3 rated temper tantrum in the cereal aisle at the grocery store because you won't buy the Twinkly Sugar Bombs with the free Hannah Montanna microphone inside knows that Mrs. O has got the go-ahead gear for the modern Mom.
As a mother of teenagers, I know there’s not a day goes by that couldn’t be improved by a round of ammo unloaded in the PlayStation and the business end of my AK47 leveled low and steady at anybody hanging on the refrigerator door asking me what’s for supper. Fire off a warning round, and I might even get somebody to start at their bedroom door and shovel a path to freedom, or failing that the closet, through the piles of dirty laundry and borrowed electronics that presently restrict room to room travel. But that’s probably pushing my luck.
The next time I have enough teenaged boys hanging on the furniture in my living room to start my own alternative school, I’m going to break out the camo pants, sling on the Sure Shot and growl, “Somebody take out the Hefty Bag or your little electronic army men are gonna be missing some pixels.”
Of course, the only weapons allowed in the house are some foam rubber swords from the circus and an aging Super Soaker, which was an awesome example of water firepower before it sprang a determined leak in the back. These days, anybody that tries to take out a crowd of defenders either looks like the last place finisher in a wet T-Shirt contest or a likely candidate for a Depends commercial. Either way, I’m going to get the guys attention long enough to ask them to take the trash out.
So go ahead. Make my day.
Now I don’t keep up with the goings on of men generally, since I have basically no interest in how many channels I can watch simultaneously on television, but if dressing my husband in matching hat and gown will get me a tank of gas I can afford, I’ll be fighting the crowds in the Stout Ladies Department at Wal-Mart to find Bill Dear a suitable outfit.
Other than that, I’m not going to comment on B-Ob’s little ensemble, because my attention is on his Rambo-ready wife. As far as I’m concerned Michelle Obama is the one to watch. Anybody who has a child that's thrown a DEFCON 3 rated temper tantrum in the cereal aisle at the grocery store because you won't buy the Twinkly Sugar Bombs with the free Hannah Montanna microphone inside knows that Mrs. O has got the go-ahead gear for the modern Mom.
As a mother of teenagers, I know there’s not a day goes by that couldn’t be improved by a round of ammo unloaded in the PlayStation and the business end of my AK47 leveled low and steady at anybody hanging on the refrigerator door asking me what’s for supper. Fire off a warning round, and I might even get somebody to start at their bedroom door and shovel a path to freedom, or failing that the closet, through the piles of dirty laundry and borrowed electronics that presently restrict room to room travel. But that’s probably pushing my luck.
The next time I have enough teenaged boys hanging on the furniture in my living room to start my own alternative school, I’m going to break out the camo pants, sling on the Sure Shot and growl, “Somebody take out the Hefty Bag or your little electronic army men are gonna be missing some pixels.”
Of course, the only weapons allowed in the house are some foam rubber swords from the circus and an aging Super Soaker, which was an awesome example of water firepower before it sprang a determined leak in the back. These days, anybody that tries to take out a crowd of defenders either looks like the last place finisher in a wet T-Shirt contest or a likely candidate for a Depends commercial. Either way, I’m going to get the guys attention long enough to ask them to take the trash out.
So go ahead. Make my day.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Bathroom Safari
“Morning, Mom. Don’t go in the bathroom.”
Nothing says Rise and Shine like a warning not to use the facilities.
“What’s wrong?” My early morning detection system could use a little work. I totally failed to miss the large “Do Not Disturb” sign resting on a stack of towels the size and shape of the Statue of Liberty. We huddled in a mass and peered in at the terrycloth statue on the checkerboard tile.
“Um, there’s a creature under there.”
“Oh.” My intelligence meter doesn’t top out until after my morning muffin. If my IQ points rose as fast as my blood sugar, I’d be smarter than a fifth grader every morning before the sun came up.
As I blinked to focus, I made out a crude but clever early detection system rigged up in the bathroom. The Towel of Liberty was balancing one of my crystal goblets on the peak. If anything in that statue moved, the Waterford would be water under the bridge faster than you could dam it.
Son Two, the Bugophobe, takes after me. There could be anything from a honey bee in pre-sweetened larva stage to a winged Komodo Dragon under that towel, and the reaction would be the same. No need for facilities—all bodily functions go on automatic pilot.
“What is it?” I’m trying to conjure a worst case scenario. If best case is of the Cricket Is Our Friend variety that I’ve bested in the hundred meters dash before, I won't panic until I hear chirping over the household intercom. But worse case, which includes any type of predatory animal or insect capable of defending itself with teeth, claws, stinger, or obnoxious Lysol-relling odor, would find me dialing 911 from a payphone inside the Animal Control Office.
So far, I’m thinking that towel is going to stay put for the eight and a half hours it will take for Bill to get home. I’m considering hanging out a sign that says “National Monument” and charging admission.
Bug Boy is not big on accurate news reporting. “I’m not sure. It was huge. And it looked mad.”
Great. An irate creature possibly under the influence of growth hormones under a few flimsy towels in my bathroom. How long until it gnawed through the barricade and launched a Rambo-like manhunt for the person responsible for its untimely entrapment and incarceration. It probably had some sort of advanced tracking system embedded in its tentacles.
Oh the positive side, I didn’t have to outrun the creature, only the other person in the race, whom I felt I could outdistance if a natural disaster or a free-flying chair impeded his progress. I was eyeing the furniture for ease of transport, when the goblet shook. We looked at each other.
Out in the yard, we continued the conversation.
“Geez, Mom,” Son Two rubbed his shin. “Why’d you hit me with the recliner? I almost dropped the grill.”
“You were trying to trip me up.”
He dropped the baseball bat and the laptop. “I was just trying to save some of the valuables in case the monster wiped out the house. You know, like Godzilla did to Tokyo.”
About that time, Son One called to us from the bathroom window.
“The coast is clear. You can come in now.”
“Did you kill it?” I imagined crafting shoes for the entire family from the monster’s hide.
“No, I let her out.”
“Her? What was it?”
“It was a lady bug.”
“A lady bug?” I glared at the Bugmeister.
“Mom, that may have been a bug,” he sniffed indignantly. “But she was no lady.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Well, she landed on the jelly glass by the sink."
"Gross, but okay."
But she never even touched the crystal.”
That's my boy. You can't judge a ladybug by her spots, but anybody who rejects lead crystal can just fly away home.
Nothing says Rise and Shine like a warning not to use the facilities.
“What’s wrong?” My early morning detection system could use a little work. I totally failed to miss the large “Do Not Disturb” sign resting on a stack of towels the size and shape of the Statue of Liberty. We huddled in a mass and peered in at the terrycloth statue on the checkerboard tile.
“Um, there’s a creature under there.”
“Oh.” My intelligence meter doesn’t top out until after my morning muffin. If my IQ points rose as fast as my blood sugar, I’d be smarter than a fifth grader every morning before the sun came up.
As I blinked to focus, I made out a crude but clever early detection system rigged up in the bathroom. The Towel of Liberty was balancing one of my crystal goblets on the peak. If anything in that statue moved, the Waterford would be water under the bridge faster than you could dam it.
Son Two, the Bugophobe, takes after me. There could be anything from a honey bee in pre-sweetened larva stage to a winged Komodo Dragon under that towel, and the reaction would be the same. No need for facilities—all bodily functions go on automatic pilot.
“What is it?” I’m trying to conjure a worst case scenario. If best case is of the Cricket Is Our Friend variety that I’ve bested in the hundred meters dash before, I won't panic until I hear chirping over the household intercom. But worse case, which includes any type of predatory animal or insect capable of defending itself with teeth, claws, stinger, or obnoxious Lysol-relling odor, would find me dialing 911 from a payphone inside the Animal Control Office.
So far, I’m thinking that towel is going to stay put for the eight and a half hours it will take for Bill to get home. I’m considering hanging out a sign that says “National Monument” and charging admission.
Bug Boy is not big on accurate news reporting. “I’m not sure. It was huge. And it looked mad.”
Great. An irate creature possibly under the influence of growth hormones under a few flimsy towels in my bathroom. How long until it gnawed through the barricade and launched a Rambo-like manhunt for the person responsible for its untimely entrapment and incarceration. It probably had some sort of advanced tracking system embedded in its tentacles.
Oh the positive side, I didn’t have to outrun the creature, only the other person in the race, whom I felt I could outdistance if a natural disaster or a free-flying chair impeded his progress. I was eyeing the furniture for ease of transport, when the goblet shook. We looked at each other.
Out in the yard, we continued the conversation.
“Geez, Mom,” Son Two rubbed his shin. “Why’d you hit me with the recliner? I almost dropped the grill.”
“You were trying to trip me up.”
He dropped the baseball bat and the laptop. “I was just trying to save some of the valuables in case the monster wiped out the house. You know, like Godzilla did to Tokyo.”
About that time, Son One called to us from the bathroom window.
“The coast is clear. You can come in now.”
“Did you kill it?” I imagined crafting shoes for the entire family from the monster’s hide.
“No, I let her out.”
“Her? What was it?”
“It was a lady bug.”
“A lady bug?” I glared at the Bugmeister.
“Mom, that may have been a bug,” he sniffed indignantly. “But she was no lady.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Well, she landed on the jelly glass by the sink."
"Gross, but okay."
But she never even touched the crystal.”
That's my boy. You can't judge a ladybug by her spots, but anybody who rejects lead crystal can just fly away home.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Clean Sheets and Cat Hair
Perusing my favorite blogs around the web, I came across a topic that gave me paws, um pause, which is Old English for an idea for a post of my own when stuffy sinuses have blocked any new ideas from entering my brain. Therefore I shamelessly stole this prompt about clean sheets from the December 12th salute to Clean Sheet Day on Seven Babes A-Blogging, although I'm offering a link to their site to make amends for my theft and so they won't beat me up or stomp me with their stilletos. (Check them out at http://7babesablogging.com/).
I have more of a chance of watching Brad Pitt saunter down my driveway in a polka dot Speedo than I do of sleeping on clean sheets. In a country where almost anything is possible, why can’t I hop straight from the shower onto sheets so sparkly fresh that the Martha Stewart on the tag looks like Shirley Temple? Oh, sure I’m familiar with tales of snuggling into a freshly made bed and enjoying that indescribably luxurious feeling of high-count cotton against bare skin. But I have a trio of cats and a double dip of doggie paws patrolling my bedroom like it’s Wild Kingdom. Ringling Brothers can construct three rings and a big top in the time it takes me to change pillow cases. Nothing says, “Here, kitty kitty” like snapping on a bottom fitted sheet in a delicate floral print design.
I almost got away with it last week. I tiptoed down the hall to the linen cupboard and sprayed the door hinges with a puff of lubricant to avoid any telltale squeaks, soundlessly removed a set of clean sheets from the shelf and crept as stealthily as a ninja past curfew into the bedroom--where I tripped over Justin the Rambo cat who was lying in wait, wide-eyed and tail-twitching, camo headband tied jauntily about his ears. Like thoroughbreds at bugle-call, we raced each other to the bed. As I rounded the headboard and headed down the homestretch, I made a desperate attempt to flip open the sheet and send it floating toward the waiting mattress. Down, down the billowing folds settled, landing on the diving form of a springing cat, who had launched himself into the swirling cloud of cotton like a skydiver jumping into the waiting arms of heaven. I scrambled after him in a puff of dryer fresh scent and a cloud of tabby cat hair. By the time I retrieved Camo Cat, the covers resembled a bolt of fake fur on the clearance rack at Walmart. I snapped on the fitted sheet ignoring the fact that my bed had sprouted a cat-shaped lump and a gray tail that protruded from one corner of the sheet and twitched so fast it looked like the mattress was rotary powered.
While I’m engaged in tiger taming, in parades Lucy, the Dachshund Queen, to take up her usual resting place, nestled into the center of my grandmother’s comforter. This girl considers it an actionable offense to move three inches to the right so I can get in to bed at night. Coercing her to relocate long enough to introduce new linens requires a majority vote in the house—and I’m outnumbered paws down. It’s not long before I’m surrounded by more wildlife than you find at an outdoor picnic, the sheets look like they need to be sent to a specialty groomer, and I need another shower.
So tonight I’m sleeping in the dog’s bed. It’s the cleanest spot in the house.
I have more of a chance of watching Brad Pitt saunter down my driveway in a polka dot Speedo than I do of sleeping on clean sheets. In a country where almost anything is possible, why can’t I hop straight from the shower onto sheets so sparkly fresh that the Martha Stewart on the tag looks like Shirley Temple? Oh, sure I’m familiar with tales of snuggling into a freshly made bed and enjoying that indescribably luxurious feeling of high-count cotton against bare skin. But I have a trio of cats and a double dip of doggie paws patrolling my bedroom like it’s Wild Kingdom. Ringling Brothers can construct three rings and a big top in the time it takes me to change pillow cases. Nothing says, “Here, kitty kitty” like snapping on a bottom fitted sheet in a delicate floral print design.
I almost got away with it last week. I tiptoed down the hall to the linen cupboard and sprayed the door hinges with a puff of lubricant to avoid any telltale squeaks, soundlessly removed a set of clean sheets from the shelf and crept as stealthily as a ninja past curfew into the bedroom--where I tripped over Justin the Rambo cat who was lying in wait, wide-eyed and tail-twitching, camo headband tied jauntily about his ears. Like thoroughbreds at bugle-call, we raced each other to the bed. As I rounded the headboard and headed down the homestretch, I made a desperate attempt to flip open the sheet and send it floating toward the waiting mattress. Down, down the billowing folds settled, landing on the diving form of a springing cat, who had launched himself into the swirling cloud of cotton like a skydiver jumping into the waiting arms of heaven. I scrambled after him in a puff of dryer fresh scent and a cloud of tabby cat hair. By the time I retrieved Camo Cat, the covers resembled a bolt of fake fur on the clearance rack at Walmart. I snapped on the fitted sheet ignoring the fact that my bed had sprouted a cat-shaped lump and a gray tail that protruded from one corner of the sheet and twitched so fast it looked like the mattress was rotary powered.
While I’m engaged in tiger taming, in parades Lucy, the Dachshund Queen, to take up her usual resting place, nestled into the center of my grandmother’s comforter. This girl considers it an actionable offense to move three inches to the right so I can get in to bed at night. Coercing her to relocate long enough to introduce new linens requires a majority vote in the house—and I’m outnumbered paws down. It’s not long before I’m surrounded by more wildlife than you find at an outdoor picnic, the sheets look like they need to be sent to a specialty groomer, and I need another shower.
So tonight I’m sleeping in the dog’s bed. It’s the cleanest spot in the house.
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