BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but in case you are new here… Oh, what the hell… It bears repeating even for the regulars:

E K despises Wal-Mart.  And, when I say despises that is very simply the strongest family friendly word I can pull out of my pocket at this juncture. If she could, E K would have Wal-Mart strapped to the wall down in her dungeon so she could torture it on a daily basis. She hates the organization just that much.

Living under that same roof with her I have come to understand this, and to even plan routes to restaurants and cinemas so that they avoid coming within 10 miles of a Wal-Mart. It’s sort of a self-preservation thing. However, since E K is not only evil, she has the built in “Mom Thing” going on, the O-spring can at least get away with mentioning the name of the vile organization without paying the price I – or another adult – would.

And so, since Wal-Mart attracts a “certain” demographic, which then allows them to cut deals with manufacturers or even musical artists that cater to said demographic, the life sucking mecca of retail depravity happened to be the exclusive reseller of a particular CD. A particular CD that it turns out the O-spring wanted “really, really bad.” This, of course, led to the child badgering The Evil One relentlessly about shopping there – whether in person or online, she didn’t care.

Eventually the badgering wore on E K, and one night as the O-spring dropped not so subtle hints around our office, the redhead went ahead and surfed over to the online cesspool of Satan’s Shopping Center. (That would be Wal-Mart just in case you aren’t following.)

The O-spring watched on as the supremely evil one scanned the site. After a few silent moments the kid looked at her mother and with every bit of seriousness she could muster announced in a matter-of-fact tone, “You didn’t know Wal-Mart had this much information didya?”

A minute or two later, as E K and I were cleaning our drinks off our monitors, the daughter turned to me and said, “This is going to be blog material, isn’t it?”

Why yes… Yes it is.

More to come…

Murv

It took everything I had to keep from spitting spaghetti across the table and all over The Evil Redhead.  Judging from the bemused shock in her eyes and her hand over her own mouth, I am fairly certain the same was true for her. We both glanced quickly at our daughter as she continued to stuff her face, then I pushed away from the table and made a beeline for the telephone…

Of course, as with most of my stories, for this to truly make sense we have to step into the “wayback machine” for a moment to get a bit of background. So, have a seat next to Mister Peabody while Sherman fiddles with the dials and takes us back to a point in time just a scant couple of weeks prior to the “almost spaghetti spewage.”

Kerchunk… bleep… ring… ring… bloop… blorp… kerchunk… kerchunk…

Okay, here we are… Not only have we traveled back in time, but we have also shifted westward better than two-hundred miles to a suburb of Kansas City Missouri. The townhome (at the time) of my friend – and E Kay’s occasional doormat – Duane.

You see, the near spaghetti spewage is all Duane’s fault. And, the fact that it is his fault in this particular instance is 100% true. Just ask him. He will even admit to it without objection. He won’t even scream “Unicorn.” Well, not right away like he normally does.

Allow me to explain…

Her Supreme Evilness, the O-spring, Johnathan, The Chunk Man, and I took ourselves an extended weekend trip out to see Duane. This wasn’t unusual by any stretch. He comes to Saint Louis to see us, we go to KC to see him. However, during this particular visit, Duane – or as he was called by E K for a brief period, “Dammit Duane” – set certain events into motion that culminated in the almost spray of whole wheat fettuccine noodles, along with a lovely Bolognese, all over our dining room.

“How?” you ask.

Simple. Like all of us, Duane receives his share of bizarre email forwards from folks out there. On the particular weekend in question he had received an attachment in the form of a video file. Now, I have to admit that there is no truly delicate way to put this – the file in question involved “adult activities” between a Latex clad Dominatrix and her submissive.  However, the “porn” factor wasn’t the real reason the clip had been forwarded to him. As it turns out, not only was there a high level of “OMG bizarreness” to the  depicted activity itself – which I shall leave up to your individual imaginations – but the German language dialogue also punctuated it with an LOL factor somewhere around a 7 on the “LOL 1 to 10 Scale”. Anyway, to make a long story short, Duane found it so amusing that he insisted on showing it to Johnathan, The Chunk Man, and me. Due to the fact that I was in the middle of cooking, I was unable to watch the whole clip, however, I got the gist of it, as did Johnathan, The Chunk Man, and Duane. And, they got it in spades, for you see, the rest of the weekend the catch phrase between the three of them became this innocuous snippet of dialogue –

“Yah… Das is gud!”

Fast forward back to the summer evening around the dinner table. We had only been eating for a few minutes when the O-Spring, who was all of 5 years old at the time, stopped shoveling the spaghetti into her mouth and announced, “Das is gud!”

(Now, before you go calling Child Protective Services, the kid did NOT see the clip. She merely heard her Uncle Duane, Uncle Johnathan, and Uncle Chunkee running around the whole weekend chuckling and saying, “Das is gud!” about everything…)

Once I managed to swallow my mouthful of pasta without choking, I called Duane. After all, someone had to warn him that E K was already plotting his demise.

Of course, I certainly wasn’t opposed to it being him in trouble instead of me.  In my way of thinking, das is gud…

More to come…

Murv