I’ve crossed the river

So this is what it feels like to post after hours…

Music has always been a huge part of my life or more importantly our lives. Especially when you consider our glorious union is celebrating twenty years, come November.  It’s therefore kind of obvious that Dude and Princess would also turn out to be lovers of lyric and melody.

I’ve always pride myself in having an open mind.  I consider myself to be a “modern, hip, trendy” kind of dad.  The type of father who often embarrass his kids on purpose with quirky comments and the random use of the word “Dude”.  I am certainly not the type of parent who would refuse to listen to the music my kids find entertaining. I enjoy some modern bands. Some of the time.

But with the risk of being exposed to maniacs like Kanye, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber who are also selling records; I deserve a medal for keeping an open mind on this battlefield of popular music. Maybe even a bag of them. Continue reading

An open letter to Vitalii Sediuk (or the guy who slapped Brad Pitt)

Dearest Vitalli.

You’re an idiot.  And I mean this in the kindest way possible.  But you are.  A self-proclaimed, personification of everything that is stupid about humans.  The missing link between primates and homo sapiens.

I’m surprised you haven’t been seriously injured by doing arbitraty stuff, like poking yourself in the eye with your toothbrush, or burning yourself with a toaster.

Let’s recap. Continue reading

This is 40…Round 6

One wouldn't say so...

One wouldn’t say so…

Time’s running out.  Someone took a rocket missile and blasted that little opening between the two cubicles of the hour glass to smithereens, resulting in the last few minutes of my 39th year flowing as freely as the tears from teeny boppers at a Justin Bieber concert.  So I need to speed up the posts, if I still wanna make the list of 40 lessons I’ve learned in my so-called life, before I hit forty, or as it’s known in in my house rock-bottom.

26. Pick up your clothes.  For garments made from cotton, polyester and whatever else they use these days, does not grow legs.  It can’t pick itself up.  So by you NOT doing it, implies someone else have too.  Learn this now and the nagging will stop immediately.  The alternative would be to just let the clothes pile up and then (1) You might have a very interesting (and expensive) mountain climbing rig in your room, or (2) You’ll suffocate and die, just like Alexander The Great.  Yes he did.  (But who would not want to see Angelina Jolie picking up clothes in his room!)  Another benefit would be that when you acquire the skill of putting clothes in the washing bin, you will retain it as an adult and your future wife will also have one less reason to nag you.

27. Don’t get mad.  Get even.  Sorry, I meant to say: Don’t go to bed mad.  Sleep on the floor.  No, no, no.  I’ trying to say: Don’t fall asleep with anger hovering like a ghost in the room.  It’s another cliché, but this one doesn’t get the necessary credit is so rightly deserves.  Even when you’re married to an angel, like I am, you sometimes find that they need to send their wings for dry-cleaning and they end up preparing dinner as a mere mortal.  In comes husband, who is totally unaware of said dry-cleaning gig, and he complains about the lack of red meat on the menu.  The look will escalate into a full blown fit, morphing into a serious tiff and eventually explodes all over the kitchen walls, with deafening silence.  And this is not a good quiet, like when you’re sitting in church, this is video with no audio.  The silence is followed by awkwardness that fills the loving space we used to call home and as we’re forced to share a bed, we talk.  Well mostly they talk and we listen.  But there’s understanding, reconciliation, hugs and great make-up sex.  For those are the best kind. (Should I have stopped sooner…)

28. Yes.  People at our age still do it, and Yes. We still love to do it.  (Now I’ll watch you squirm and try and get over that one…hehe)

29. Find something you’re prepared to do for free, every day and choose that as your career.  Obviously this needs some explaining, as this doesn’t necessary include PlayStation gaming or Social networking, unless of course you’re the next Mark Zuckenberg, who can screw over his friends, or get a job with some gaming company.  If you’re fortunate enough to end up gaming for a salary, just consider your reply when hanging around new people and they ask you for your occupation.  Answering with “I’m a player” might not go down well with the ladies.

30. If you’re in a relationship and you realise it’s not going to work out, or you know that the person is not the one, end it.  For both your sakes.  There’s no sense in dragging on with a relationship when it is as clear as dish-washed crystal that it’s never gonna last.  Move one.  To be in a relationship takes time, effort and commitment, and then there’s trust and compromise, and let’s not forget about the money.  I know I’m forgetting something… Oh yes love.  It needs love.  But even with all these things in place, every couple goes through bad patches, those special moments when you contemplate the choices you’ve  made and murder.  But when I refer to “work” in a relationship, it should NOT conjure images of a guy, standing in ankle chains, swinging a hammer at rocks in an orange jumpsuit.  If your relationship feels like a life sentence instead of a life journey; then it might be time to break out.  You’ll both be happier, eventually.

I have 10 more to go, and it suddenly dawned on me: Wisdom grows with age.  Which would be a logical reason why I’m racking my brain for another 10 of these thing-a-ma-advise-thingies.  I’m STILL A YOUNGSTER!  But I won’t quit. I will list forty, even if  I have to lie and make some up.

The dissapearing teaspoons.

What a nice family photo, before the little one went missing. www.freedigitalphoto.net

What a nice family photo, before the little one went missing.
http://www.freedigitalphoto.net

Many unexplainable things occur in our world today, the Bermuda triangle is one great example.  Others include: How does a Boeing 747 stay in the air, who invented Velcro and how can Justin Bieber sell millions of records?  These are all mysteries that’s destined to remain unsolved for eternity, like a magician’s secrets.

Then there are oddities that’s closer to home.  Weird shit like why do I always lose one sock from a pair, who places a remote on the TV and who keeps moving my wallet, keys and sunglasses around?

I have spend some time trying to make sense of the mystical things that surround my daily life and as a result sanctioned physics, rocket scientists and bad taste for the first three mentioned in the opening sentence.  (It would be stating the obvious that Aliens are hijacking ships in the Bermuda triangle)

I furthermore deducted that I may blame our dog, the wife and old age for those nice little frustrations that occur in the space of my home.

But the greatest mystery of all is The Disappearing Teaspoons.

After forty years I have yet to find any logical explanation for this freakish occurrence in my house.  The mystery deepens, as EVERY time I need one of those little metal thingies and I open the drawer, that’s hosting all the other happy cutlery, those little fuckers are NEVER there.  And as it remains an annoyance, I replenish them often, but there is never enough.  These smallest members of the cutlery family who’s single most important purpose on earth would to assist in making coffee, are always AWOL.

And one might think it’s a youthful cutlery revolution, but the little forks, they’re there.  Always smiling, shining, hoping anxiously that I would find some use for them instead of the fall back position of requiring teaspoons.  But one cannot make coffee with a fork.  I’ve tried.

It’s probably a teenage thing, the teaspoons disappearing just when you need them to do something. Like my son hiding behind a closed door with seven of his mates playing Playstation3, when I know he only owns three remotes.  How does that work?

Or there is a huge pile of teaspoons, hiding in some refuge camp, trying to escape the daily abuse of being plunged into boiling hot water and being swung around violently.

Or if it’s none of the above, and we have a teaspoon devouring monster living in our garage ceiling.

Other than that I’m out of options and highly frustrated.  Because now I have to wash another teaspoon before regulating my caffeine-blood ratio.  I’m volatile.  And about to go out and buy another six of those little motherfu…

Chip the Chopper

To all my dearest followers.  This is a short story.  And darker than anything I’ve written to date.  It will not fit in with “Things I want my kids to know…”  and the rest of the things found here.  I’m not even expecting fireworks, but I am experimenting.  I got out of my comfort zone, explored the shadows of my imagination and ended up with this.  Humour me.

ID-10046130

Nice paint job, needs a bit more red though.

“Salty,” he mumbled as he licked the droplets of blood from his lower lip.  He could feel the stickiness of it all over his face, like those times when he tried eating an overripe mango without a knife.

The woman’s head are now lying face down after rolling a few metres down the small hill.  If only there were a few skillets, that would have been awesome.  He missed bowling.  Her body is still squirting it’s last fluids onto the green grass, a fountain losing pressure, creating a miniscule version of the Red sea.  The axe caused a spray that flew in a wide arc across his was-white-now-semi-beige-brown vest and face, hence the droplets covering him like pimples.

He puts his axe down and let the handle lean against his faded denim.  He wipes his brow and then attempts to clean the blood and dirt from his hands.  He hoped the cigarette tucked behind his ear wouldn’t be ruined, like last time, all soggy and shit.  He looked at his hands.  Big, strong hands, just like his father’s.  And now these big hands are used to seperate head and body, to protect the innocent – a slasher-movie-villian’s wet dream. 

“We have another one,” Jim said as he walked around the corner of the warehouse.  He was dragging this one by the arms in a semi-awkward, backward walking stance.  “Where the fuck are they getting the songs from?  I thought they would have destroyed all of the sources by now.  What, it’s been three months since the first morphing, hasn’t it?  I remember telling my wife that he was crap the first time I heard him.  Jeez didn’t realise….”

Most people claimed godlike wisdom and foresight in those first days.  A million prophets shouting “I told you so”.  What does it matter if they were right or not?  It didn’t help the young severed lady with the great body and the big tits lying lopsided at his feet in her blood soaked greenish dress.  It also didn’t help any of the other sixteen fans who is lying in a heap a few feet away against the tree.  The Diggers will have their work cut out for them this afternoon.  It’s summer and they only get rid of the bodies at dusk.  The flies have sent out invitations and the families would be arriving any moment.

He turned his gaze to the left where all seventeen heads ended up in the same perimeter after rolling down the small incline.  What is the collective noun for severed heads?  A rolling of heads?  A cutting of heads?  A severing of heads?   He wish he had more empathy, he wished he felt sorry for them.  Since day one he wanted to beat the crap out of anyone who wasted their time listening to that douche bag playing on the airwaves.

And now he’s a Chopper.  How quickly things change.  His dreams and promises of becoming the head-bouncer at Hooters washed down the drain like the countless litres of blood in the basin to his right.  It might still happen, who knows.  When the Sheriff arrived on their porch that fateful morning he knew.  He instinctively knew that no one else in town would be up for it.  No-one would be good enough.  It had to be him.  You need strong arms, a strong mind and a strong stomach to be a good Chopper.  And he was that.  All of that. His dad would’ve been so proud.  Weighing in at 217 lbs. and standing 6″4′ in his boots he was destined for this.  Evertything his dad taught him at the timber yard, before accidently falling into a wood-chipper, has lead him to this.  His destiny.  He knew he was skillful and he became great friends with his axe, whom he called “Axe.”  

Another benefit of this job is that it allowed him a workout as the gym membership became astonomically expensive.  He flexed his bicep and had a deep desire to kiss it.  He didn’t. Control is important in times like these.

When the morphing started they thought it would work by only cutting of their ears.  And there was something worse about girls running around screaming with bandaged heads compared to not having heads at all.  That plan didn’t work as the brain seemed to have a built-in memory card or something.  The shit got stuck in their heads, like a jammed repeat button, so after a while they would just return to their previous behaviour of killing babies.  The only thing that removed their urge to kill was to cut their audio system, unplug the speaker so to speak.  As it was all in their head.  

Some smart guy in a suit claimed that the morphing was a result of subliminal messaging.  Chip didn’t bother to understand the big words, he just realised how crap music can actually be.  The guy went on to say that over exposure to the song “Baby, Baby, Baby” triggered the morphing.

He smiles remembering the angry mob of sobbing soccer moms who stormed the singer’s house.  They shot the guards at point blank, then butchered the dad for allowing his son to turn into a dick and then dragged said dick outside.  He was only wearing a silky pair of Batman shorts and  had way to many tattoo’s.  Worse part is there were not even one saying ‘Mom’.    

Then the woman went ape-shit on his skinny ass and beat and kicked him, going wild, like fat people at an open buffet after a weight watchers convention.  They were claiming revenge on behalf of their little ones who were slaughtered by many mobs of senseless teens.  It didn’t take long for his snot and spit to change into thick black blood, spilling out of his mouth, nose and ears.  Chip shivers remembering the last image of Justin Bieber with swollen, glazed-over eyes and a very unnatural twist in his neck. 

Someone said off camera: “Try and sing now, bitch.”  Who knew his music would be so bad?

“Hi, I’m saying, we have another one.  Are you going to help. Ah shit, never mind I’m just going to leave her over here.  Probably the last one for the day.  I think she might still be conscious, maybe you should just punch her in the face before severing her head.” Jim dropped the body and walked away, disappearing around the corner.  Moments later the rumbling of his pick-up faded in the distance.

He looked at the girl lying on the ground a few metres from him.  He knew he wouldn’t bother with punching her, as some other Choppers do, he just used his axe, seemed quicker, less messy.  He walked closer, dragging the axe behind him, just like that guy in that horror movie.  This girl was already severally beaten, lying on her stomach with her brownish hair caked with blood.  Judging by the size of her body she couldn’t have been older than fourteen.  All because of that idiot who thought he could sing.  The fuck-nut.

Not even the public execution of Selena Gomez would calm them down.  Nothing worked on those morphed, crazed teens, they just ran around like headless chickens craving murder, wanting to kill babies.  He’s learned that headless chicks are a lot less agile than their birdlike name sakes..

He shoved her lightly with his boot.  Even though they couldn’t do anything to him he wasn’t in the mood for a fight.  It would just be bloodier and he was already tired.  She remained lifeless, which would become her reality in a few seconds.  He pressed his boot harder and turned her over, lifted his axe, feeling his toned muscles ripple beneath his skin.  He breathed out slowly, and just when he wanted to bring the axe down he saw her face.

He dropped the axe to his side and fell down on his knees and screamed.  A primal scream, a painful release that echoed for miles.  A scream that released small projectiles of spit from his mouth.  The morphed creature on the ground, the being who used to be a girl; was his sister.  And she also turned out to be a closet Bieber fan.  And she said she liked Pink!