BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

If you are a regular follower of B L, you most likely read “You Get HBO On That?”  a few weeks ago. In case you didn’t, or just don’t remember it and are too lazy to click on the link to refresh your memory, it was pretty much a transcript of a conversation I had with my newly 18 year old niece who had just had her nose pierced to celebrate her birthday.

For the record, I don’t care if she puts holes in her nose, or wherever else for that matter. Same goes for anyone else. However, I’m an uncle, I’m a writer, and I have a bizarre sense of humor. Therefore, it’s a moral imperative that I give my niece trouble. So, all of you pierced and tattooed whackos with email accounts can STOP sending me messages telling me what a bastard I am. If you honestly believe I am discriminating against you – and her – then your brains really DID leak out of those extra holes you poked into yourself.

Put simply: Slap some Dap ™ Stupid Crack filler on your holes and leave me alone.

But pointing out to the outraged idiots that they are idiots is not why I’m writing this particular blog entry. Nope. Actually I’m doing it to illustrate a “moral of the story.”

“What moral is that?” you ask…

Well, it’s kind of one of those “Fried Green Tomatoes” sort of morals. Remember that now famous line delivered by Kathy Bates?

“Face it, girls, I’m older and I have more insurance.”

…It’s sort of like that. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s a lot like the moral I offered in the original blog on this subject. However, Christmas was upon us, and… Well… Allow me to illustrate. Literally.

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That moral?

Don’t do something silly, stupid, or otherwise bizarre if you have ME for an uncle. I have money, a copy of Photoshop, a color laser printer, and one hell of an imagination.

BTW, I didn’t want the other kids to feel left out, so…

Niece #2 got a “Booger ™” Logoed box containing a cork, carpet needle, and antiseptic wipe, along with instructions on how to pierce her own nose.

Nephew received a “Booger ™” Logoed box containing a lump of charcoal and instructions on how to make a diamond nose ring.

Texts and picture messages were flying, let me tell you. Not sure if the rest of the teenagers in Saint Louis think I’m a “Cool Uncle” or a Jackass. Maybe one day they’ll figure out that I’m both…

More to come…

Murv

The following blog entry originally ran December 2008…

NOGGIN’…

No, not your head. And, noooooo, not that satellite/cable TV network for kids either…

Nog… Milk, Egg Yolks, Sugar, Vanilla, and some Nutmeg. Egg Nog. The elixir of the holidays. The “dairy that marries” so well with good Kentucky/Tennessee Bourbon. The very reason for making it to and through the bah-humbug season of the year.

Know what I’m talking about now? Yeah, thought so.

I’ve spoken highly of nog before. In fact, I suspect I’ve even posted a Nog Blog in the past, I’m sure. But, I’m old and I have CRS* so I don’t always remember. Anyway, as you may recall, the appearance of nog in the refrigerated section of the supermarket is how I know it is time to “be of good cheer”. And, as stated above, it is the reason I am of good cheer during the “holler days”. (Well, it and the bourbon…A whole lotta bourbon…)

There I go digressing again… It’s the bourbon talking, I’m sure of that. Maybe i should have some more… Anywho, obviously I am now in possession of sour mash-laced, sweetened and thickened dairy products of the supermarket ilk (because I simply don’t have enough hours in the day to make boiled custard – as we call it back where I come from. I’m sure I have regaled you with stories of watching my mom, my grandmother, and/or my grandfather Elvis standing at the stove, carefully and constantly stirring a pot of the concoction. If I haven’t, then perhaps I need to get nostalgic and post a Double Nog Blog this year. So, anyway, I am also in possession of the supermarket style nog because my gut  doesn’t require any more than I obtain from the store…you see, if I made it myself I’d make a lot… I mean A LOT! My gut is big enough as it is.)

So, as I sit here working in my office – well, at my dining room table actually since I felt like a change of venue today – I am having a bourboned up nog and watching my squirrels beat on the picture window because they are out of animal crackers (seriously… I just put corn out today and no animal crackers, so the little tree rats are pitching a fit… I should really take pictures.) But, back to the nog… As I sit here having my nog I am reminded of a story. If I’ve told it before, just throw me a bone – read it again and pretend like you’ve never heard it before…

Many, many, maaaaannnnnnyyy years ago, when I was but a wee author (I used crayons for my stories)… seriously, I was like 7 or 8… we (my sister and I) had this babysitter. Hannah. I wonder whatever happened to Hannah. I had a major “8 year old” crush on her… and, what with her being an older woman… ya’know, like 15 and all… Well, either way, I digress yet again… Bourbon, nostalgia, and hormones… weird combination 

So, back to the “story”… You see, we had some nog in the fridge because it was around the holidays. Mom had told Hannah that she was welcome to have nog, and that so could my sister and I. And, we did… In fact, we drank better than a half gallon between the three of us as I recall.

When my parents came home that afternoon, instead of finding two kids bouncing off the walls and a frazzled babysitter, they found two sleeping kids and a snoozing babysitter.

You see, my mom had mixed up the labeling on the containers. It seems that we had, without our knowledge or any malice aforethought, consumed the bourbon laced nog instead of the “family friendly nog”.

All we knew is that it tasted a bit different, but it still tasted really good… And, of course, it made us feel all warm and tingly. Back then, we attributed it to holiday cheer.

Now that I am older, I understand that holiday cheer comes in a bottle. Now, excuse me while I head back to the kitchen for a refill.

More to come…

Murv

* Can’t Remember Shit syndrome

(Oh, and yeah, I stole your footnote idea there, Anastasia ;p )