Rust Belt Ramblings

Postponed, Due to Lack of Interest

2010-05-05T19:07:00.009-05:00

I tried to bond with the O-Dog today. A little pre-maturely, perhaps.

O-Dog: I didn't understand Hannah's biography on Tara Lipinski. Who's Tara Lipinski?

Prego: A figure skater. Which one's Hannah?

O-Dog: The one with short hair and glasses.

Prego: Oh. She's cute. Don't you think she's cute?

O-Dog: I don't know. I don't like her.

(hmmm...)

Prego: Well, who do you think is the cutest girl in your class, then?

O-Dog: I don't KNOW!

Prego: Oh, you're not there yet?

O-Dog: Where?

Prego: You don't notice girls.

Here's the part that cracked me up inside...

"Notice girls? What do you mean, 'notice girls'? What's to notice? 'Oh. Look. She's doing her homework. Wow.'"

Granted, in about six years, he'll be drooling like a Pavlovian O-Dog, hiding his

"nerb *" as he goes to the chalkboard.

(*nerb: from the acronym NRB, for 'no reason boner.')

In the meantime, he could see no reason whatsoever to notice the fairers.

I thought of all the other lackluster things he'd be bound to notice... when he's not paying attention to b-cups, visible panty lines, freckles, that sexy little red mark on the back of the calf she gets after she's had her legs crossed for the past 38 minutes, bra straps, toothy and winsome smiles, stylish glasses, barrettes, hanes for hers, tasty beauty marks, come-hither glances...

Here, then, is a ho-hum list of "What's to notice...?"

"Oh look. She's watching Grey's Anatomy."

"Oh look. She's eating cobb salad with dressing on the side."

"Oh look. She didn't flush. She must have been on the phone with a friend when she shat."

"Oh look. A splattoo."

"Oh look. She's driving a Beetle"

"Oh look. She's texting while driving."

"Oh look. She's browsing the poetry aisle."

"Oh look. She ordered a multi-syllabic coffee beverage. With skim milk... f*cking up the whole queue this morning."

"Oh look. She subscribed to "Cooking Light."

"Oh look. She left make-up residue all over the sink."

"Oh look. She's pissed about 30 things and needs to let you know all about it. (29 of them are about you.)"

"Oh look. Mich Ultra."

"Oh look. She jogged her boobs away."

"Oh look. She has 13 cute car air-fresheners."

"Oh look. Her dog fits in her purse."

"Oh look. Liberal bumper stickers."

~~"Oh look. She's 'experimenting.'"~~ (Oooh. That lacked foresight.)

"Oh look. She said 'Chai.'"

"Oh look. An Ani DiFranco CD."

"Oh look. She's giving us a play-by-play of her daily routine on facebook."

"Oh look. She owns the complete 'Sex in the City' DVDs."

"Oh look. She hates the three Stooges."

"Oh look. She doesn't 'get' sports."

"Oh look. She rides vintage bike and wears thrift store clothing."

"Oh look. She's vajazzled."

I could go on... but on the other hand, there are the sun dresses... hair tosses, arms akimbo, hips, lips, short hairstyles, long hairstyles... tennis...

Chain of Pain

2010-04-28T19:20:00.003-05:00

A little word-play game I've been playing... a variation on the muscle-headed, menacing quote: "Two hits. Me hitting you. You hitting the floor."

A few years ago I added "... and the ambulance hitting fifty (mph) on the way to the hospital." One of my boys, J. Sales appreciated the humor, so we've been adding the "hits" lately. Let's see how many hits we can take it to:

Me hitting you.
You hitting the floor.
The witnesses hitting 9-1-1 in horror.
The paramedics hitting you up with an IV
The ambulance hitting fifty on the way to the hospital.
Your mom hitting her knees when she gets the news.
The gurney hitting the emergency room door.
The doctors hitting you up with reconstructive surgery.
The newspapers hitting the stands with the story.
The jello hitting your chin, because you won't be able to eat anything else for months.
You hitting the remote to change the news channel showing showing your ass getting medical attention.
Your family hitting your friends for cash at a benefit to cover your medical bills.
The judge hitting his gavel, acquitting me, because you're a punk anyway.
The hospital's collection agency hitting you up for the past due balance.
Kids hitting it when they see your f***ed up face coming up the street.
You, hitting yourself, saying "Why? WHY???"

And Prego, hitting the "Publish Post" button with this dumb, f***ing blog-post.

All Right, F*ck It.

2010-02-09T17:14:00.002-05:00

I'm going to jump-start this b*tch, if I have to club a muse over the head. What's the point of being a writer if you don't write?

Last gasp?

2010-01-03T19:16:00.001-05:00

I doubt I can resuscitate this thing, but anything's possible.

Sub-Zero Memories

2009-01-14T17:06:00.004-05:00

5. Going sledding in Delaware park with my family. Sat there shivering... Dad notices the only thing I wore under my winter coat was a flimsy t-shirt... Dad says, "Jesus. Are you stupid or something?" as he takes off his own sweater and puts it on me.

4. Getting a ride home in my friends' cold mini-van and convulsing to the point that it felt my guts were being wrenched.

3. Walking, sans gloves, with my brother to buy milk from a vending machine, circa 1977, and coming home crying. This prompts my mother to rush me to the sink, running water over my hands and rubbing to re-vive my frozen digits.

2. Being stranded in Buffalo General hospital during a snow storm eight years ago. Cars are buried under a couple feet of snow. While watching everyone dig their cars out, I get an epiphany - I turn to my brother and say, "Dude, we can take the subway home and walk to my apartment." Probably the only time I found that subway handy.

1. Walking home in 5th grade with a wad of Bazooka Joe chewing gum in my mouth. I blew a sizable bubble... it falls from my lips - I watch the bubble fall and shatter on the sidewalk into a thousand pieces as if it were a light bulb.

Nothing more life-affirming than winter.

Another Attempt to Get Back in the Saddle

2008-12-16T15:48:00.005-05:00

Funny thing about taking a hiatus from something like blogging... you never know quite how to begin again. It's not like there is any shortage of material. Fletch-monster still does and says crazy sh*t. O-Dog is still handsome and sensitive. Serpico is doing all that baby sh*t that makes people go awwww. Then there are all the ongoings in the nation and the world that can raise an eyebrow and cause a blogger to go ape-sh*t, writing a 1,500 diatribe about some shoeless Muslim newshound throwing his Hush Puppies at Dubya. Nope. I'm also not going off on that well-coiffed public servant from Illinois any more press.

I'll keep it simple.

I had one of those instances that usually have me scratching my head, thinking "Why didn't I think of that first?" Only this time, I did think of it first.

Directions:

Purchase a child's t-shirt
Purchase package of iron-on transfers
Download this graphic

Print on your inkjet printer and apply to the garment, following instructions

4.Throw the shirt on the young 'un.
5. Spend 48 minutes trying to explain to the missus why you don't think it's inappropriate.

Or you can skip the last step and just print one for yourself.

Optional step - Take digital picture and send it to yours truly...

Holy Sh*t. Has it been a year?

2008-09-05T15:32:00.002-05:00

Man, how do I break the shackles of writer's block?

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet?

I guess ultimately it doesn't matter.

Trifecta

2007-10-04T19:45:00.001-05:00

Mrs. P pumped out another boy a couple of weeks ago. Atta-girl!

You can see here that the Fletchmonster isn't a big fan of that 'new baby smell.'

Yeah... everything's rosey here, as the Sarge gets acquainted with his brothers. He came out of the chute at 7 lbs. 15 oz., though I'm not sure why anybody cares. I might care if I was a woman, though, and had to push out something that sizeable out of my cooch. Goddamn.

I always have to remember not to look down after the baby comes out. For those gentlemen who've never had the pleasure... What do you get when you cross your wife's 'chocha' with a Jackson Pollock painting?

Heh.

Heh-heh.

Heh.

All kidding aside, I'm proud of the Mrs.

That looks painful as f*ck to go through, and she's gone through it willingly three times. Of course, she comes from Irish stock... All they need to birth is some Bailey's, a pot of warm water, tree bark, a rope and a couple of dishrags (á la Christy Brown's mother), though Mrs. P's a bit Americanized so they had to throw in an epidural.

Well, then, I'm off to go play hockey tonight... and to have a toast to the O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and the Sarge.... to the advent of the daddy stitch....

and to Jackson Pollock.

Ruminations on Procreation

2007-09-16T15:09:00.001-05:00

ON GENDER
Well, nine months after we bumped uglies and created another month to feed, Mrs. P and I are on the home stretch. I'm jazzed about finally getting to meet him or her, finally... You know, other than the occasional high-five through a fleshy tummy, I haven't had much bonding time with him or her.

Of course, the gender question comes to play. Being on the receiving end of a Mrs. P tirade, I wished for a girl.

Mrs. P - (screaming) BLAH-PITY BLAH-BLAH BLAHHHH! BLAHHHHH! A**HOLE!

Prego - Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, dear... (Yeah. I know you're pregnant, baby. Hopefully with a girl who'll use this precise tone when angry... not with me... with YOU.) Yes, dear. I'm sorry. Yes, dear.

Of course, deep down I could care less if it's a boy or a girl, though I look at my two little bastages, out of the chute now for three and six years and wonder aloud, "Wouldn't it be cool if it's another boy?"

"It'd be cool if it's a girl, too!" comes the icy response.

"Yes, dear."

Of course, there'll have to be some minor adjustments. For instance, when Mrs. P goes to work, I may no longer be able to turn to the brood and say, "All right, boys. Let's hang out like gentlemen," before we retire to the couch to scratch our balls or drive down Elmwood Avenue to check out the Hey-Now, Hey-Nows...

Yes... a girl will definitely tip the balance of power in favour of the XX chromes... Three kings usually trumps two queens, unless the queens are three-dimensional and have a pulse. In this case, the camps are equal, or estrogen laden and feminized. Now we may actually have to stop in the pink-ish section of Target, or those three aisles of Disney princesses, tea cups and skanky Bratz dolls (which will garner a resounding 'F*CK no!' if she ever asks for one).

On the other hand, when O-Dog and the Fletch are grudgingly on their way to their in-laws, muttering their own pained "yes, dear...s," hopefully my daughter will come around to wipe my *ss and feeed me Metamucil while her husband mutters "yes dear" as he mows my lawn.

ON WHIPTITUDE
Something about a pregnant wife and an impending birth exonerates men from even the worst offenses. Take for example my 'faux pas' on the bench during my hockey game this past Thursday.

Mrs. P - Take your phone with you on the bench. It might be tonight.
Prego - Huh? Uh... are you sure?
Mrs. P - I don't know... they might just be Braxton Hicks contractions, but you never know.
Prego - Uhhh. um... yes dear. (God... If she's going to call me, let it be late in the third period.)

Fast-forward an hour... end of the first period. This is where the defencemen, such as myself, switch to the other end of the bench as we switch sides of the ice. Two young teenage forwards come down to the end.

Teen #1 - Hey, who the f*ck brought the phone on the bench?
(Prego pretends not to hear... fixating on the action on the ice.)
Teen #2 - Ohhh... I think that's Prego's.
Teen #1 - That's right... At least he's got an excuse. I thought it was someone with a concerned girlfriend or something.

Today, 6.38 am:

40-Something Defenceman - Hey, whose f*cking phone is this?
(Prego pretends not to hear... fixating on the action on the ice.)

ON OTHER PEOPLE'S FARTS
Yeah, people are pretty much judgmental. I'm no exception. Just for sh*ts and giggles, I put Mrs. P on the spot a few years back when we went to one of those useless birthing classes. You know the ones... where some cupcake from the 'burbs pats her belly and says "And this is Kay-Li," during those insipid introductions.

From there it went to stupid-*ss queries like, "We're going to Cancún after the baby's born. Is it okay for her to drink the water?"

During our lunch break I turned to Mrs. P and shouted, "Hey... you got your smokes or did you leave them in the car?"

Mrs. P, indignant, immediately hits me in the arm saying, "Jesus. What's wrong with you? Now all these people are going to think I'm some trashy *sshole."

"When are we ever going to see any of these effete f*cking couples again?"

Yeah. I suppose that made her feel pretty darned low, but I guess not everybody feels that way. Last week, I was walking out of a shop and saw a pregnant girl talking to her friends. As I walked past, I noticed something that looked like a lit cigarette in her hand, so I did one of those double-takes that my brother and I always do, where we think people don't notice we're scrutinizing them, but they do.

Her response was, "Yes, I'm smoking and I'm pregnant, so have a look."
(Prego pretends not to hear...)

Wise Prego knows it's better not to say anything. A few years ago I might have muttered something stupid like, "Gee. I was kind of hoping you were just fat."

Zzzzzz. Zzzzzzzzz.

2007-09-08T15:28:00.000-05:00

Snorttffff. Cough-cough cough, wheeeeze....

Sh*t. That was a hell of a two month coma. I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember was asking the guy in the sh*tter next to me for a light... next thing I know, I'm waking up with three missing teeth and an anal orifice you can fit a rottweiler pup into.

Let me just wipe the Rice Krispies from my eyes....

There.

Good to be back.

PS. Still no baby yet. Any day now.

Copyright Infringement

2007-06-28T20:27:00.000-05:00

With apologies to David Shannon, I thought I'd pen a big boy version of his classic "No, David!" novel. For those of you who are childless, or haven't gotten around to reading this gem with your young ones, it's the story of a boy whose mother puts the kibosh on his good times.

Here, then, is the married guy's version entitled

NO, PREGO!

Prego's wife always said...

Gorgon? Zola?

2007-06-20T12:22:00.003-05:00

Mrs. P. was kind enough to remind me that we have a baby due in a couple of months.

"I think it's time you started working on the baby room."
"Uh, yeah. I'm on it," I reply.

Actually, I'm fully aware that we're about to complete the trifecta. As the date nears, we're inundated with the questions.

"Do you know what you're having?"

"Yes. A baby," I reply. This is usually followed by a swat to the arm from Mrs. P. as she politely explains that "we're not 'finding out'."

"Do you have names picked out?"

"We don't have the 'boy' name narrowed down, but we might have the girl name picked out."

I usually let the O-Dog handle this inquiry, since he's the one who thought of it.

"If I have a sister, her name is going to be 'Medusa'."

This usually yields a quizzical/ disapproving/ disgusted/ amused/ bewildered look from the person.

The O-Dog bounced that one off of us a few weeks ago, and I'm running with it. Sure, it'd be easier to go with the flow and pump out another Hannah, Emily, Sarah, Madison, Brianna, Kaylee, Kaitlyn, Haley, Alexis or Elizabeth, but what fun would that be?

I thought of some of the situations that would be remedied by the name:

Kindergarten Teacher: (taking attendance) Kaylea? K-Lee? Olivia? Hannah? Jaden? Jayden? Jacob? Olivia? Jacob? Kayleaugh? (zzzzzzz.... zzzzzz....) Oooh. Here's one I haven't come across. Medusa?
Medusa: Present.
Kindergarten Teacher: Hallelujah. Sit up front, kid. I like your moxie. That's a tough name to grow up with.

The precarious teen years:

Pubescent Boy: Jayden, Medusa's looking a little cute these days.
Pubescent Boy #2: Dude... that sounds weird. Let's go hit on Kaylie.

The treacherous high school years:

Salivating Teen: I think I'm going to ask Medusa out.
Salivating Teen's Friends: Pffffffft. Haww haw haw! Go ahead, bro.
Salivating Teen: Or, uh... maybe you're right. There's always Kaileah.
Salivating Teen's Friends: You might as well. She's dated all of us.

Away at college:
College Kid: Oh... Medusa, baby. you uh.. uhh...
Medusa: What? What????
College Kid: Uh. I can't do this.

If our parenting skills fall short:
Emcee We've got the hottest strippers here at Club Skeezer. Dakota, Madison, Cheyenne, Kayleagh and Medusa!
Patron (whispers to friends) Uh... let's go to another joint.

(Everyone files out)

Club Manager Medusa, we're going to have to let you go.
Medusa Well, I guess I'd better go back to college.

in which case:

College Dean: And graduating Magna Cum Laude with a PhD in Petrification... Medusa.
Prego: WOOOOOHHHH! Yeah! That's my girl!

and years later:

Director of Geology: Mr. Prego, I would like to ask you for Medusa's hand in marriage.
Prego: I don't know.... What's your name, son?
Director: Uh... Sue.
Prego: Awwwh... Sh*t yeah!. Was your dad a Johnny Cash fan?
"Boy named Sue": Yeah, thank god. My mom wanted to name me Kay-lee.
Prego: Oooh... Now that's cruel. Drink up son. Can I call you Susie?
"Boy named Sue": Sure. Can I call you Pops?
Prego: Don't push your luck.
"Boy named Sue": Sorry.
Prego: Medusa! Break out a bottle of ambrosia! You're getting married.
Medusa: Hurray!

Or then again, we can just go with Kayeleeh.

私-私

2007-06-08T08:35:00.000-05:00

JFH just tagged me with one of those "me-me" deals. If we were in Mexico it'd be a "Yo-Yo"... a "je-je" in Paris... or if you had the misfortune of being in Germany, an "ich-ich."

The creative well's down to about a thimble-full, and I always comply anyway, so what-the-heck. Here are eight useless tidbits you don't know about me:

1. On occasion, I've inadvertently worn the same pair of underwear for three or four days. Observe:

Thursday morning - 7:30 AM shower (fresh pair of boxers)
Thursday night - hockey game - 11:58 PM locker room shower (same pair)
Friday morning - "Late for work" deodorant application - 7:32 AM (same pair)
Friday night - hockey game - 12:01 AM locker room shower - (same pair)
Saturday - Run around with kids... collapse from exhaustion - showerless.
Sunday - Hockey - 8:38 AM locker room shower (Underwear tries to flee to safety. Retrieve underwear. Go home... wife threatens divorce. Remove aforementioned garment with surgical gloves and tongs.)

2. I have eaten a sandwich while doing "Old No. 2."
You're either a member of this club or you aren't. (It wasn't a club... it was a hoagie.) It's not as illustrious as, and doesn't have the same notoriety as the one that involves a female and a bathroom in an airplane. Regrettably, I'm not a member of that one... I don't think Mrs. P would go for it. Even if she did agree to it, it'd be tough to pull off logistically. It'd go down something like this:

Prego: Come on, man. Let's go 'do it' in the bathroom. It'll be so cool.
Mrs. P: Oh... all right.
Prego: (to flight attendant) Hey, toots. Do you think you can watch these kids while my wife and I both go (grabs sandwich) uh... defecate? It'll only take 96 seconds.
Flight Attendant: (to self - Oh, my gawd... he's brown. This is suspicious.) Security!

(At this point, Prego - sandwich in hand - is turned into carpaccio by a couple of thugs wearing gub'ment issue Ray-Bans and Aqua Velva aftershave.)

3. I hate Brussels sprouts.
I have eaten iguana, moose, alligator, octopus, snails, the paper that 'birthday cupcakes' come in and even boogers, but if you a Brussels sprout in front of me, I'll throw a toddler-esque fit:

Prego: Waaahhhh. It tastes FARTY in my moufff...
Fletch-monster: By gawd, O-Dog. I believe father is correct.
O-Dog: Mother, I also refuse to ingest this wretched vegetable.
Mrs. P: Oh, jesuschrist... All right. You don't have to eat them.
O-Dog & Fletchmonster: Brah-vo. Thank you, dear mum.
Prego: I no like da couscous eether....
Mrs. P: Faaaaaahhhk.

4. I've been ridiculed for admitting to having had a crush on Lecy Goranson... or the "original Becky" from the Rosanne show; even more so for further mentioning that she and her replacement Sarah Chalke would be my first choices for my "dream" ménage-a-trois.

Of course, that was during the single days. My choice these days would be Mrs. P and an exact DNA clone...

...of a sheep.

5. On the subject of celebrity crushes, recently I saw a picture of Matthew McConaughey on my friend Josh's refrigerator:

Prego: What gives?
Josh's Wife: Oh... we were having a conversation about 'gay crushes' and if you had to have one, who would it be. Josh said that his was Matthew McConaughey.
Prego: ...and...
Josh's Wife: A friend of his sent him the picture as a joke.
Prego: ah... (eyes picture and Josh suspiciously)
Josh: Why? Who's yours?
Prego: Jack Black.
Everyone in Kitchen - including Mrs. P: (Laughter) WHAAAAAAT????
Prego: If I had to go through something like homosexuality... I wouldn't want to do it with a pretty boy and that "hold me" sh*t... and I'd better be laughing my *ss off.

(Everyone in kitchen discusses the logic behind this choice like a bunch of academic types tearing apart a dissertation.)

6. I once bet a schoolmate 100 Bolivares (Approximately $25 in 1983 - Currently about $0.19 these days) that I could go the whole day without talking. I lasted about two and a half hours before I accidentally blurted something out. I snuck a bill out of my dad's wallet to pay the debt -- one of the reasons I'm going to hell.

7. Other than immediate family members, I'm a horrible thief. I once walked around a K-Mart for about 48 minutes with a cassette copy of the Ramones' Rocket to Russia album in my pocket and a pack of gum in my hand. I was too nervous to go through with my plan. I kept envisioning the following scene:

Cashier: (Oh my gawd. He's brown...) SECURITY!
(Teenage Prego is pummeled into carpaccio by an overweight and mustachioed security guard wearing dime-store sunglasses and reeking of kielbasa.)

and

8. I once accidentally walked in on songstress Sarah MacLachlan while she while she was putting on deodorant. She took it pretty well (she's a wonderful woman). Though I find her extremely attractive, it wasn't quite enough to make me drool like a Pavlovian shih-tzu like I would if it would have been Lecy Goranson, Jack Black or....

a sheep.

In keeping with the "me-me" accord, I hereby tag Matthew McConaughey.

Boinggggggg...

2007-05-31T12:24:00.000-05:00

As a product of American television, I've garnered most of my common knowledge from the boob tube. I've learned a little bit from books, but generally, 80% of what I know I learned from television:

Cats and dogs don't get along.
Dogs who pal around with stinky hippie types are adept at solving mysteries.
Keep your feathers numbered for emergencies.

One thing that I find doesn't quite work out in the same way in real life is the head injury. Yes, upon impact you do see stars or birdies fly around your head -- but no. Your head doesn't take the shape of the frying pan... and the bandages don't disappear in the next scene.

Many a time I've seen Tom get his bell rung by Jerry, as a large lump forms on the poor cat's head... tongue hangs out... eyes cross... Fifteen seconds later, he's back on the saddle, using his cunning and wits to try to foil his nemesis.

That's why I can't explain why four days after getting knocked for a loop in a collision with a teammate, I still can't ~~fstohfls~~ think ~~d gdsgdl ylys g~~ clearly and yrthfh feel like sh.. ... ....

What could possibly be the next revelation? Riding a motorcycle and saying "Ayyyyyy" isn't cool? The girls at the Regal Beagle aren't easy? Putting your hand perpendicularly to the edge of your nose isn't the best way to avoid a poke in the eyes?

God, I hope not... If these are true, I'm f*cked.

Shecky Greeene Brown

2007-05-25T12:13:00.000-05:00

Student: Mr. P, my pen ran out on me.
Prego: That tramp. She did the same thing to me. Did she take the dog?

"Hot" Mail

2007-05-17T11:03:00.000-05:00

I found this singed jotting, skewered with a 'pitchfork-esque' swizzle to my front door. I immediately assumed it was in response to yesterday's letter.

'Drear' Prego:

My assistant, Mr. Reagan passed your letter to me. Let me begin by telling you that you are correct: your soul is mine. Theos and I were throwing back the Zimas a while back, (mid 90's) and if I'm not mistaken, I believe that was the height of your foray into debauchery. We discussed your prospects for the afterlife and it was clear to us (particularly after the possum fiasco) that you were destined for perdition. You have about as much chance of getting into heaven as Pete Rose has of getting into the Hall of Fame.

I must admit, though, I like your moxie and irreverence. That's why I'm willing to entertain your offer. As you might have noticed, your Sabres were victors in last night's hockey game. I'm going to mull it over between now and Saturday afternoon. The Senators, after all, did beat my Pittsburgh Penguins.

As for your other proposal, though Attila appreciated it, he has his sights set on the "Zack and Cody" twins. Rosie, however has a vatful of petroleum jelly and some leg shackles with your name on it. As the hillbilly said to Ned Beatty: "Squeal like a pig, boy...!""

Nefariously Yours,
Lucifer

PS I do, in fact, exist. Nice job on the fence-sitting "out" clause, sucker... but around here a deal's a deal.

Soul for Sale

2007-05-16T07:06:00.000-05:00

Prego: I'm selling my soul to Satan.
Mrs. P: For what?
Prego: To get the Sabres past this series.
Mrs. P: (Annoyed & Distraught) Ugh.. That's really good. Nice. Nice...

I know she has visions of us walking hand in hand in that giant Jehovah's Witness Petting Zoo in the sky, so it was really difficult for me to break it to her.

Dear Satan, Baal, Beelzebub, Akuma, Prince of Darkness or Whatever:

How are you? Torrid, I hope. Let's not kid ourselves. I know you already lay claim to my everlasting (There was that time in Kentucky with the possum and the voodoo priestess from Havana. Oh... and playing those Judas Priest records backwards...) but I thought I'd ask you for a small request. I don't usually ask for much -- not that you listen much, anyway: American Idol is still on the air, Rosie O'Donnell can still walk and talk... Also, you never sent that murder of crows to pluck out Dr. Phil's moustache hairs one by one -- but you're my last chance.

I realize you're busy, and people ask you for all kinds of stupid crap (fame, fortune... sacrilicious doughnuts; I also realize that his kind request falls into that category - after all, there's no self gain for me and it doesn't quite further your cause, but do you think you can find it in that black void in your chest to let the Sabres squeak through this round of the Stanley Cup playoffs?

The other #$*@ers are ignoring me (and I wish the Dalai Lama would quit calling me) and I don't know where else to turn. I'm willing to spend eternity as Attila's boy-toy or sitting through a Bette Midler triple-feature...

You did it for Ray Bourque, Mario Lemieux and Scotty Bowman, so if it's not too much trouble...

Sincerely
Prego

PS If you do in fact exist, kindly ignore this letter. Let the chips fall where they may. I'd hate to think that the Sabres actually won the Cup on anything less than grit, hard work and sheer determination. And say "hi" to Katie Couric for me.

J'aime/Déteste L'Hockey - En Deux Chapitres

2007-05-10T17:46:00.000-05:00

Chapitre Un
I always sucked at sports as a kid. My dad told me so at around age 16... which is why I don't set unreachable standards for Le O-Dog to meet. Every time I throw him on the ice, I tune out all the screaming idiot parents, yelling "Shoot!" or "Skate!" to their youngster every time they near the puck. I'm content in watching my boy learn to skate, have fun and keep his *ss off the couch.

Every once in a while, he does something to make me particularly proud.

O-Dog: That kid hit me on purpose.
Prego: Make sure you've got the right number, and go give him a quick glove on his face.

The O-Dog spent the last two minutes of the game chasing this little thug around the rink. He never got him, but he had a smile on his face the whole time.

This past weekend, the O-Dog gave me another "Proud Pop" moment. Anybody who's watched 5-8 year olds play hockey knows it is at times a big clumsy cluster of bodies chasing the puck. I watched as another little guy careened into my O-Dog, sending him to the ice. He falls often, so I didn't give it a second thought... until I clearly saw tears streaming down his face.

I tapped on the glass to try to get his attention, feeling helpless that I couldn't get to him. O-Dog kept skating around. He finally got his coach's attention, pointing to his helmet and getting sent to the bench.

I kept thinking to myself, "Please get back out there..." thinking he might have been too scared to continue.

Four minutes later, the O-Dog is back on the ice for the next shift.

I asked him after the game, "O-Dog, I saw you were crying."

"Yeah. I hit my head."

"You kept skating, though. That was good. What were you doing?"

"I was going after the puck. My team only had one goal and the other team had like a thousand."

All of a sudden, I had visions of Ron Francis, stumbling & crawling on his hands and knees across the ice after a Scott Stevens hit, demonstrating cobbles the size of bowling balls. Regardless of what 'pain' he might have been in, his resolve never lapsed.

"I love you, Odie."
(Puzzled look) "I love you, too, daddy."

Chapitre Deux
Les Putains find themselves in the Conference Semi-Finals again... (Afinogenov just made the score 2-1 as I write this. Yes!)

I find that I turn into quite the idiot this time of year. Ordinarily, I'm a pretty grounded individual, however, playoff hockey turns me into a bundle of nerves. The emotional peaks and valleys are dizzying, and I frequently wonder why I do this to myself. Then I see video clips like this -- a vintage Theo Fleury goal and the spontaneous celebration that still makes my glass eye fog over:

What's it got to do with me? Not a goddamned thing, yet I find myself sporting this ungodly and uncomfortable mess on my face. When I was a kid, I'd watch the Sabres of yore grow these "playoff beards" once their teams entered the post-season. Once Les Putains entered the playoffs, I began to grow this follicular talisman on my puss, as if it's really going to do them any good. From what I see around town, I can at least find some comfort in knowing I'm not the only dumb-ass.

Last year, I stuck to the same brand of beer (Blue Moon) & watched all the games with the same person (my neighbor).
Think of the horror, when my brother threw off our mojo when he showed up with his fiancée and a 12 pack of Saranac. My neighbor and I looked at each other with apprehension as our unexpected guests came in. 'What's the worst that can happen, after all?'

The death knell tolled when our doorbell rang again. My neighbor's father came to join us for the third period and the Sabres subsequently shat themselves out of Cup contention. I don't think my neighbor talked to his father for about a week. I was a little more forgiving and talked to my brother after a couple of days.

This year's taken a different tone. My neighbor is away at college I haven't been pounding the brews -- bedtime is testy enough, without being half in the bag.

(Lydman ties the score at 2! Hecks yeah!)

My juju instead has been these cookies from local dessertery Sweet Tooth:

(The two humping buffaloes at the top of the picture are inadvertent, by the way)

I don't expect a good game from Jochen Hecht, since
a) Fletchmonster dropped the cookie after a couple of bites and
b) the dog ate the lions share of it off the kitchen table.

Incidentally, Hecht is nursing a groin injury and just took a sh*tty cross-checking penalty.

Anyway, I've been watching the bulk of the games alone, prepared to kick anybody out of the house if things ain't going our way... especially my friend Skip. When he and I get together for important games... Sh*t. It's like throwing a hat on Bob Hughes's bed.

Tonight I asked Mrs. P to pick up a sixer of Blue Moon for old time's sake. It may or may not work... Actually, I'm thinking of switching to Magic Hat's #9.

Another couple weeks of facial hair and its accompanying discomfort is a small price to pay to be part of what might hopefully be a Stanley Cup season. Sh*t. I've been relishing these moments for thirty years. And as irreligious as I am, I'm playing all my cards.

You don't know how desperate I am. I'm willing to give the Dalai Lama a reach around if it'll get us past the Ottawa series.

Allez Putains.

Addendum:
The Wh*res shat themselves tonight 5-2. Series is 1-0 Ottawa.
Note to self: Ixnay the No. 9 swill. Get Dalai Lama's number.

Word Whammer, Indeed.

2007-05-08T11:02:00.000-05:00

Mrs. P bought the Fletchmonster this LeapFrog® jibber today. We had one of the 'fridge-front' ones a couple of years ago, but the dog chewed up all of the consonants. (Vowels are presumably less tasty.) That one just sounded out the letters -- this new, 'improved' version helps with word recognition for three-letter words.

Mrs. P: Fletchy, why don't you show your daddy what I got you?

The Fletchmonster pulls his toy out and hits the button.

Word Whammer: Let's spell a word. W-A-R. War.

(Mrs. P and I exchange glances.)

Prego: What? Was this f*cking toy designed by Republicans?
Mrs. P: I didn't like that word.

Not that this necessarily warrants a boycott of LeapFrog® products, but you'd think they might have programmed it to start off with "FUN" or some sh*t.

Iron Tyke

2007-05-07T09:14:00.001-05:00

The O-Dog and the Fletchmonster are on that "superhero" kick that lasts between ages... oh, two to six or seven. I was hoping to avoid it, but my sister and her kids weren't. A couple visits to Canada and a coustume or two later and it's Dark Knight this and Spider that.

It's not that big a deal, actually. At least the $25-30 costumes they get for Halloween get 360 days usage.

The Fletch has recently invented a new kind of hero.

His uncle came to visit recently to join us for dinner. As he enters the living room he quickly picks up the O-Dog to tickle him and roughhouse. The O-Dog, laughs hysterically, yelling "Fletch. Save me. SAVE ME." At which point the Fletch lunges for my brother's legs.

I leave my brother to his own devices as I go upstairs to get the boys' socks and a couple of clean shirts.

When I come downstairs five minutes later, they're all sitting on the couch calmly watching TV. My brother casually asks me, "Fletch likes to defend his brother, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I reply. "They like to fight 'bad guys' and all that superhero crap."

"Because the little f*cker bit me."

Mandibula?
The Chomper?
Masticator?

Now that's my kind of hero.

Open Letter To the ***hole Who Stole O-Dog's Hockey Equipment

2007-05-01T09:24:00.000-05:00

Dear Petty-*ss Thief:

Thanks for the minor inconvenience last week. I'm sure you're proud of your accomplishment. It's the craftiest heist since D. B. Cooper's. I realize I made your 'crime' a bit easier by leaving the door unlocked, but the way you managed the door handle? Now that was some adroit sh*t right there. Masterful.

I don't know what you were expecting to find in the O-Dog's hockey bag: $38,000 in small bills? Bootleg DVDs of Spiderman 3? A complete set of Funk & Wagnalls from 1973? I can imagine your disappointment when all you found was tot sized hockey gear.

There are two scenarios I envision in which you tallied up your haul. One, you cart the satchel off to your squalid little hovel, unzip the bag (I'm sure you were able to handle this task after the way in which you worked your way past the car door) and utter a long "Faaaaaaaaaahhhhhhkkkk" after pulling out tiny skates and and a youth M sized jersey. I hope you at least managed to take the goods in to a used sporting goods store and used the $40 or so they'd give you for a carton of smokes and a case of PBR.

The other less likely scenario assumes you have a little wretch at home. "Look, Jr. Christmas came early this year." In which case, I hope the bastard son of Scott Stevens catches your kid skating with his ugly-*ss head down through centre ice. On second thought, I shouldn't wish ill upon your spawn. It's bad enough it's got you for a parent. Besides, somebody's got to grieve your smack-addled corpse someday.

Either way, my congratulations on your cunning and guile. Maybe next time you can help yourself to the 43¢ in pennies and nickles I had in the ashtray.

Disdainfully yours,
Prego

PS I replaced the O-Dog's gear. Perhaps you'd like to take it from us mano a mano? I'd love to have you try. I'm sure they'll be able to surgically remove the hockey stick from your rectum.

Pucks, Pads and Piss

2007-04-14T11:28:00.000-05:00

The O-Dog had his debut as a goalkeeper for his team today -- a daunting task for a novice skater. The poor little bastard could barely stand up with the goalie pads strapped on. In a rush to get him dressed on time, I forgot to take the last trip to the facilities with him to empty the bladder.

Every three or four games I forget this bit of rink 'housekeeping'. The O-Dog usually skates off the ice, and I rush him to the john to undo the cumbersome equipment and let him take his leak. There was no such respite to be had today.

Short of leaving the goal crease empty, there was not much we could do.

Though it looks like he's giving the "icing" signal, he's actually trying to get his coach's attention. Unfortunately, he'd have to wait. I managed to capture the conversation between the O-Dog and his coach.

Needless to say, he solved his problem on his own before the end of the game, as the coach skates with him to center ice to shake hands with the other team:

"Well, at least he doesn't have to go anymore."

... and he won, 6-5.

Pfooooooffff....

2007-04-06T08:38:00.000-05:00

Excuse me while I blow the dust off of this blog. This thing's been updated lately about as much as the billboards in Podunk, WV.

This isn't to say life's been uneventful in the Prego household... The O-Dog got into a scrap with one of his kindergarten classmates -- a little snot who's destined for "juvie" -- Mrs. P killed a rabbit, which means there'll soon be another Caeleigh or Kegger running amok on this doomed planet of ours.

... And when I wasn't busy propogating the species, I started a webite to house my editorial cartoons. I also took the liberty of creating this Teenage Jesus character, who'll hopefully make someone chuckle once in a while in one-panel shenanigans. I figure I'm going to hell anyway for any of another number of offenses.

Here's a taste, just in time for Easter:

If anybody cares, sorry for the hiatus. Enjoy your (as Rob of fuquad! likes to quip) Zombie Jesus weekend.

Halleluuuuiaaaa... And Now, Yet Another Reading from the Book of Emesis.

2007-03-07T09:44:00.000-05:00

Given a choice from which to expel disease-induced liquids, I will always opt for the South Side. Yes, that's right. I'd rather straddle the toilet when I ail than to hug it. The rest of the Prego clan seems to prefer the Northtowns. Actually, the Fletchmaster tends to operate in both.

Monday afternoon, Mrs. P suggests I take the boys to "Smokin' Joe's Family Fun Centre" in Niagara Falls. I know. Smokin' Joe's name is synonymous with wholesome entertainment, but it's been hovering around zero˚ here in W.N.Y. and the goddamned libraries close early.

Anyway, about two blocks from the fun centre, The Fletch anounces that he has to go pee.

Prego: We're almost there Fletch.
Fletchmonster: I gotta go peeeeee... (whimpers, kicking the back of my seat.)
Prego: Hold on, buddy. Let me just park.
Fletchmonster: Waaaahhhh.

I park the car and hurriedly go to the Fletch's door.

Fletchmonster: I pooed my pants.

Great.

The trusty little bastard hadn't done that in about a year, so I was a little unprepared. As I walked him to the door I checked his drawers. Sure enough. Feces. I thought about what I'd do when I got inside. If it was manageable, I'd just wipe him off, throw the soiled underwear in the trash and let him have his fun.

Smokin' Joe's door was locked.

I turned the Fletch around, unzipped his pants and let him take a whiz in the entrance before herding him and his brother back to the car.

O-Dog: We're not going in?
Prego: It's closed.
O-Dog: Well, why don't we go somewhere else?
Prego: Because he sh*t his pants!

Ordinarily, I wouldn't use a "Daddy word" of this magnitude with him, but the situation made me a little testy.

The drive home was a bit aromatic to say the least. The O-Dog would open his window to freshen things up a bit. It filled the car with an Arctic blast, but I wasn't going to argue with him. Fletchmonster fell asleep in his saturated garments.

When we got home, I rushed the Fletch to the bathtub. He insisted on taking off his own clothes, but given the gravity of the situation, I kept him from doing so. He wrestled a bit, but once he saw both his legs covered in dooke, he relented. I cleaned him up, fed the boys and plopped them down with the O-Dog to watch Scooby Doo and the Witch's Ghost.

Fast forward 1 hr. and 20 min.

"All right, guys. It's bedtime."

At this point they both come upstairs. I look up from my laptop to see the O-Dog in the doorway with a steady stream of vomit coming from his mouth.

"Go to the toilet! Go to the TOILET!"

Instead, he just stood there as more came out.

I tiptoed around his puddle and nudged him into the bathroom, where he continued everywhere but the basin. "Great. Another cleaning project," I thought as I undressed the O-Dog for a bath.

From the hallway, I could hear, "Daddy, I have to go pee."

"Hold on, Fletch. Give me a minute." I said this as I thought about the last time he said that. I left the O-Dog to his own devices and went to find his brother. As I dropped Fletch's pants at the toilet I noticed it was too late. I threw them into the tub and began to clean the carpet.

Something funny about half-digested hot dogs... They tend to break into little pieces, much like mercury does (except that it doesn't rejoin back together). I pulled out the vaccuum cleaner to get the big chunks before I started scrubbing the rest of it.

(Dials Telephone)

Mrs. P: Hello?
Prego: Uh, what gets vomit out or carpeting?
Mrs. P: Oh, no. The Fletch?
Prego: No. He sh*t himself earlier. The O-Dog.
Mrs. P: I don't feel so great myself.

I finished damage control and put the boys to bed. I was laying in bed myself, when Mrs. P arrives home from work.

Mrs. P: I gotta go (fooommmphff) to the bathroom.

I dozed off to an alternating cacophany of retches and flushes, throwing in the occasional, half-hearted "Are you okay, honey?" before I zzzzzzz... zzzzzzzz....

The next morning I awoke feeling a little achy myself.

"This house smells like death," I remarked to my wife. "I narrowed it down to the source. The vaccuum cleaner."

"You used it to clean the puke? You idiot! That's not a wet-vac!"

"I just used it to get the chunky stuff up. It kept breaking up into tinier pieces..."

"All right! ALL RIGHT!" she cried. It was evident she wasn't 100% yet. I went to work, despite feeling cruddy myself. About half-way through the day and several trips to the toilet later, I called it an afternoon and went home to recoup.

I did stop at the pharmacy for some Carpet Fresh™, though. And a couple rolls of Cottonelle®.

Fonzie Rides Again

2007-03-02T16:24:00.000-05:00

The Beige One mans the helm this week and posits on celebrity shark-jumping... That's when some sh*theel we could care less about tries to wring out a few more years of career longevity... and holding off before Mephisto comes collecting. Join in the chat.

God Bless the Goddamned NHL

2007-02-24T13:39:00.000-05:00

Well, sort of.

Bless these players.

Though the NHL has attempted to 'frown upon' such theatrics, there is no denying that both the players and fans alike enjoy this spectacle.

There is, as they say, no school like the old school.

It should make for an interesting rematch tonight.

I love bloodthirst.

Methuselah's Revenge

2007-02-22T11:40:00.000-05:00

When I perish, (and hopefully that won't be until the 2112 Milwaukee Summer Olympics) my wife's got explicit instructions to dispose of my body on garbage day. host Carol from Feeling Peevish wonders what it'd be like if society had a large population of 158 year olds who just keep on ticking.

Well, for one thing you wouldn't be able to keep Depends™ in stock.

Outro:
You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,
But that's the way I like it baby,
I don't wanna live for ever,
And don't forget the joker!

Singin' the jetBlues

2007-02-19T15:38:00.000-05:00

Peter Pan - Now Chunkier

2007-02-17T16:13:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Kevin J. Hosey at Buffalo Roots, I'm a couple miles closer to that Pulitzer. This is more Prego style:

Second Foray Into Cartooning

2007-02-17T11:29:00.000-05:00

I'm about six hundred miles from a Pulitzer, but what the f*ck.

Culture Schlock

2007-02-16T11:44:00.000-05:00

John Sadowski laments that we are fresh out if ideas when it comes to creating culture. I'll have to say I agree. True, it's difficult to assess when you're living the moment. The stinky hippies of the 60s didn't think they were going to leave a legacy. Little did we know our children would co-opt those horrible 4th grade 1970's hairdos. Even counter-culture movements such as punk rock has been re-hashed, so that it's not unusual for an eighth grader to paint their hair green for no apparent reason.

Regardless, what do you think will be the enduring image of the "Aughts" decade? John wants to know.

2007-02-14T21:33:00.000-05:00

"I love you all the way up to the last number."
The O-Dog

...Take Me Away

2007-02-08T22:01:00.000-05:00

Nothing budged my adolescent pecker more than the sight of a frustrated haüsfraü rubbing her temples as her family drives her nuts.

"Calgon, take me away," she cries as she plops her voluptuous rump in a sudsy tub.

Ahhh... yeah. That's right, baby. No-no-no... wait. Don't reach for that towel.

The lovely Suzanne of Perfecting the Fine Art of Procrastination stirred those memories. No. Unfortunately I didn't get a bathtub shot. Instead hosts the this week. She queries: what floats your boat?

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to do a YouTube scan for... uh... mmm...

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

2007-02-06T10:59:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post in hopes of finding my missing friend, Winter. Well, I just thought everyone should know that he's been found safe, though authorities suspect he was abused during his absence. My guess is that he was, because his disposition has been surly at best.

As he plummets temperatures into the single digits and throws a frigid white mantle on our homes, he's chain smoking and sneaking Old Granddad from his mother's liquor cabinet. In other words, he's kind of pissed.

This weekend we took the hellions to that chafe called "Sesame Street Live" with my sister and her family. As Mrs. P hands the parking lot attendant a $20 bill, the gentleman removes his glove. Winter immediately starts pummeling the poor man's digits with an ice mallet. As an emergency measure, the attendant puts his hand up to our sh*twagon's sputtering heater.

Mrs. P: Um.... Are your hands cold?
Parking Lot Guy: Mmnnnn.... Yeah. Everybody's paying with twenties.
Mrs. P: Oh... I'm sorry. I have a five, but I'm paying for the car behind me. Here..

Heat: Fwwwwwwwwwooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Parking Lot Guy: Aw... Thanks. (Wiggles his fingers... hands Mrs. P her change.)
Mrs. P: You need some more?
Parking Lot Guy: Yeah, sure...

(She cranks the dial on the heater and adjusts the vent.)

Heat: Fwwwwwwwooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Parking Lot Guy: Ohhhhhhhhhh.... Thanks.

Yeah. Winter's back, but a bit churlish. You might see him on Dr. ~~Fag~~ Phil, talking about his feelings.

Outstanding Visual of the Week

2007-02-02T09:49:00.000-05:00

No, it wasn't a tired old thong.

(Actually, I wish it had been.)

I took the O-Dog to school on Wednesday and, as we approached, we saw the familiar faces of Mr. G and Ms. M greeting kids out in front. There was an unfamiliar figure coming up the street. What's cool about my neighbourhood is that once you walk south on Elmwood Avenue and pass Bryant Street you start seeing more and more people with missing limbs and teeth and sh*t. It's quite entertaining. Most of them are regular fixtures. This guy wasn't.

He seemed to have all his appendages intact.

All the visible ones, anyway.

Our 'hero' approaches the two teachers and asks Ms. M to hold his coffee. She politely complies, as our protagonist begins to pull up his shirt. I'm sure at this point she's thinking, "Aw, @*$#. He's going to take out his mangy, street-person unit and take a leak all over the side of the school building." But, no.

While the O-Dog and I came closer, I saw that the gentleman was in fact doing was 'tightening' a white fabric around his waist. I couldn't conceal my amusement as I walked past Mr. G and commented, "I love this town." Mr. G kept rubbing his face, looking off into the street to avoid laughing. I overheard the homes, saying something about losing weight and something about a belt.

I dropped the O-Dog off in his classroom and headed back outside, and our resourceful paragon of destitution had disappeared in the distance.

Prego: Sorry about that. I didn't make it any easier for you to keep a straight face.
Mr. G: That's all right. I wouldn't have been able to anyways.
Prego: What the heck was he using for a belt?
Ms. M: A sock.
Prego: That's rich. I was kind of hoping it was an extension cord.

I cinched the dog leash tightly around my waist and bid my adieu, as I headed to the dumpster to find my breakfast.

I love this town. Indeed.

Bouche de Toilette

2007-02-01T13:47:00.000-05:00

"Son of Beech. Sheeet."

Such was the response of some non-descript immigrant to Russell Ziskey in Stripes. An entire classload of English Language Learners duly replied in unison:

"Son of Beech. Sheeet."

Those of you who might have seen the film know that the lesson culminated in Zisky teaching them to sing "Da Doo Run-Run." That'd come in handy anywhere.

Steph Waller, the Incurable Insomniac hosts this week's , paying homage to some choice colloquialisms around the world. This topic strikes close to home. When I moved here in 1984 from Venezuela, the first thing everybody wanted me to teach them was how to swear in Spanish.

I kept trying to explain that there is no equivalent for "f*ck" in the language... at least no direct translation. At the same time, I couldn't find the equivalent for "Coño de tu madre" in English, either. Languages are unique in their nuances and humour. Perhaps that's why I am unable to use my favourite of my mom's many refranes, "Maracucho pendejo muere chiquito," in conversation.

Pay the Insomniac a visit for some other worldly catchphrases.

Casting Call for Roundtable: The Motion Picture

2007-01-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

Years ago my friends and I'd have this conversation where we'd decide who we'd like to play us in the movie of our life. Like my friend Chris, for instance:

Chris: Nick Nolte.
Prego: ...But he's over six feet tall and blondish, while you're...
Chris: Nick Nolte.
Prego: Uh... yeah. I could see that.

Girls were the worst at this game. One such acquaintance named Nancy asked me whom I thought should be cast. Needless to say her feelings were slightly hurt when I said Anjelica Huston. I could see her wince, thus forcing me to add, "A young Anjelica Huston."

No dice.

"Um... Why? Who did you have in mind?" I queried.
"I was thinking of Neve Campbell."

Prego: Uh... yeah. I could see that.

I guess the question weighs heavily on self-esteem, self-image and a bit of the delusional. Casting for a biographical film is such a difficult endeavour. Occasionally you have a moment of genius, such as Tom Hulce as Wolfgang Mozart, George C. Scott as General Patton, or Howard Stern as himself -- but more often than not, you end up with a "huh"?

The best example of a "huh?" casting was Rosie O'Donnell as Betty Rubble. I'll have to admit, I had a bit of a crush on Betty as a kid. Between her and Wilma, it was no contest. A cavehussy like Rosie O'Donnell would have sent any self-respecting troglodyte to the nearest monastery or at least drive him to bestiality (which would have had serious repercussions on our species).

Then, there's the occasional "Patsy Cline" treatment in which case the subject of the film actually gets a bit of a favour. Patsy Cline was no slouch, but vintage Jessica Lange? Groooowwlllll....

Trollopy activist Erin Brockovich got such treatment. Marginally. So did Jesus in The Last Temptation of Christ.

Sh*t, back in the day, they didn't even show, Jesus. They'd just have some pious sounding voiceover with an inexplicable echo effect. They showed such reverence for Presidents of the United States, too. They'd usually just film the back of a chair in an office (if the need ever arose to have a presidential character).

Well, I suppose it leaves the question, who'd be the silver screen Prego? That distinction has always gone to Esai Morales - that dude that played Ritchie Valens's brother in La Bamba. For some reason, that response always evoked laughter - either because it's a good choice or because people always remember his pained "Rih-tcheeeeeeeee" when he learned of his brother's death.

Me? I liked the fact that his character was a "struggling artist" and took his brother to a whore house, where he uttered the line "Smells like fish, but it tastes like chicken!" It kind of makes up for the fact that he got his ass kicked by Sean Penn in Bad Boys.

Better yet? He's Hispanic and you actually can say "Um... Yeah. I could see that.

I haven't decided on who'd play Mrs. P. I figured I can get a nice casting couch for the likes of Paz Vega or Rosario Dawson. I'm sure they can pull off an Irish chick... with Lindsay Lohan as a stunt double...

Excuse me.

(What's that? Oh... sh*t, baby? I'm only kidding...)

Mrs. P just informed me that she's casting Matthew McConaughey as her divorce lawyer. F*ck. I suppose I should get Dustin Hoffman's people on the phone. In the meanwhile, I'm curious:

Best biopic casting decision? The worst? Most importantly, who might play you in the story of your life? Wallace Shawn? Jack Black? Karen Black? or (shudder of disgust) Elvira?

Lights.

Camera.

Action.

La Mort Seule du Jennifer Strange

2007-01-20T12:10:00.000-05:00

Last week I walked into the O-Dog's bedroom, where I found the Fletchmonster sitting atop the computer table near the fish tank. The Fletchmonster has taken a liking to throwing Hot Wheels™ cars into it lately, despite being told numerous times to stay away from it. I noticed, much to my horror, that the lid was pushed aside and the tank's light fixture sat precariously on the edge.

FaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhkkkkkkKK!!!!!!

I grabbed the Fletchmonster quickly and chided him for playing with the tank. Inside, my stomach sank at the horrifying thought that the Fletchmonster might have prematurely met his maker by electrocution. As I fought the urge to retch, I quickly dug in the drawers for tape to affix the tank's lid - thus Fletchproofing it.

One of any parents' worst fears is to have a kid check out before you. It would suck to no end. Sh*t like diseases you just can't help sometimes. What are you going to do if the kid comes out of the chute with some ungodly sickness?

You expend time and energy to instill self-preservation to your offspring, which is why the demise of Jennifer Strange is so... so.... um... (insert opinion here).

Homegirl drank two gallons of some "fine quality H2O." Was it to end world hunger? Was it to protest the war in Iraq? Was it to save a kitten from drowning? Such nobility was absent in this scenario.

Her cause? A free Nintendo Wii game to turn her three kids into vidiots. I'd be willing to bet her kids would rather have Chutes & Ladders or Mousetrap, if it meant having a mother with a pulse.

Morning radio is chock-full of insipid contests. There's the classic "pregnant chick in a bikini" contest, some idiotic scavenger hunt or another way to demean yourself to win some cheap prize in our ongoing quest to get something for nothing.

As the old saying goes, "It's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye."

Ms. Strange lost something a little more than that. Worse yet, she gave her mother the displeasure of finding her lifeless on the bathroom floor.

I'm not going to be insensitive with a joke (such as What do Jennifer Strange and Mr. Limpit have in common?) I truly feel for her loss. I remembered attending my friend Ron's funeral about ten or so years ago. He was a funny talented artist/musician... took a bad drug and turned himself into a near vegetable. He decided to kill himself by setting himself ablaze. At the funeral, I looked over at his mother, whose burnt hands were bandaged from trying to put him out and I began to cry uncontrollably. His mom was crying as well.

As the lawyers start gearing up for the "No, f*ck you, it's your fault" debate, let's pour out a 12oz. bottle of Perrier on the sidewalk to pay props to our dead homey. May Poseidon have mercy on your soul.

Highbrow, Lowbrow and the Unibrow

2007-01-18T08:04:00.000-05:00

I once read that if you lost your passport in a foreign country, the US Consul would ask you some questions to see if you were 'legit'. No, they didn't ask you stuff like "Who ran against Harry Truman for the presidency?" "Explain the concept of Manifest Destiny," or ask you to sing the third-verse of the 'Star Spangled Banner.'

Their litmus test?

"M&Ms melt in your mouth..."

You'd better be prepared to answer, "not in your hands," unless you're looking to share a cell with a Randy Quaid-ish guy from Iowa somewhere in Ankara, waiting for your loved one to throw you a glimpse of the A-cups through some smeared glass.

Josephus hosts the roundtable this week, waxing nostalgic about pop-culture touchstones. What gripping moments in pop culture give you goose flesh? Was it Paul Westerberg's screaming intro to "Bastards of Young"? Was it Archie Bunker's anguishing loss of Edith? Or was it when Daniel-son did that crane move against Johnny in his final showdown?

What moment in pop culture was poignant for you? I hope to god it wasn't when Greg resolved his orange hair dilemma.

Stop by Pop Icon Joe Wack's Hairshirt blog and share your thoughts.

The Phantasmic Four

2007-01-12T11:40:00.000-05:00

When most people in films see a ghost, they run like m***** f***ers. Who could blame them? Lately, ghots in films are some gaunt adolescent in a billowy nightgown - forced to wander the Earth because of post-partum fiasco or an ancient curse or something.

Zzzzzzz. Zzzzzzz.

Often, they look quite normal, until you get really close and then Grrraaaarrrrr.... They turn into some creepy, hellish sh*t, either ripping off your arms and beating you over the head with them or just making you scream like a poor soul getting dragged to Miss Congeniality 3 by his girlfriend. If you're black, he kills you right away. If you're Hispanic, he makes you reach for the rosary and hide in a church. Whitey? You watch all the minorities get axed while you figure out a way to 86 his ass. Go whitey.

Conversely, ghosts are at times friendly. Not necessarily in a Casper way (I once offended my mother-in-law by commenting that prior to his ghosthood, Casper was in all likelyhood a latent homosexual), but as a benevolent soul looking to right a wrong, or just looking for a homey to hang with. This is the kind of ghost I'd like to see.

Here, then, are brief descriptions of ghosts that I would not mind being haunted by. I didn't include my mom. I doubt she'd be a good ghost to have, since I'd invariably be bummed out every time I try to hug her only to have my arms go through her. Also, there's no guarantee she'll appear as beautiful as she was in real life, and I don't want to be put in a situation where I'd have to say, "Mom, you look like sh*t."

I did include the following:

Elvis
Granted, his movies were bunk and his music experienced a steep decline in quality after the 50s and early 60s, but when you think about it Elvis has the style and je ne sais quoi that would make him a pretty dynamic apparition. The first thing I'd suggest is for him to ditch the jumpsuits and slim down a little.

Can you imagine an Elvis ghost?

Me Elvis, the wife's a little frigid lately. Do you think you can bust out Blue Moon for me to warm her up a bit?
The King "Blue mooooonnn.... you saw me standing alone...."
Me Yeah, that's the sh*t, buddy. You want another rice cake?
The King Gnarf gnarf gnarffffff....
Me Whoahhh. Easy there, dog. You almost bit my finger.

Think of the entertainment possibilities. Every Super Bowl Sunday you can turn off the lame half-time show and have some laughs with Elvis and your friends.

Me Elvis, do some of that kung fu sh*t.
(Elvis complies)
Group Waaaaaah- ha haaaaaaawww!
Donny (Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes) I think I just p*ssed my pants! Haaa- ha haaaawww.

An Elvis ghost would be pretty darned sweet.

Edgar Allan Poe
I paired up the King and Poe in a post last year... but if there's someone that would know something about haunting, it's Poe. Additionally appealing is the fact that he had a bit of a drinking problem.

Me Edgar, let's polish off a bottle of Wild Turkey and go f*ck with my in-laws again.
Edgar (hic) I'm game....
Me You might want to give that "nevermore" business with Aunt Judy's bird a rest, though. It's a little played out.
Edgar Shall we (hic) esconce her cat behind the dry-wall again?
Me Neh. I'm thinking torches and chains and sh*t.
Edgar All right... (hic) but we've got to stop at Home Depot and that antique store on Niagara Street.
Me Oooof. That place gives me the creeps.
Edgar Exactly....

That Ghost From Ghostbusters that Unzips Raymond Stantz's Pants
Now that's some ghostin'. Enough said. Mrs. P, obviously, would be extremely opposed to this ghost and would evoke the ghost of either Jack the Ripper or King Henry VIII to dispose of her properly. Damn...

Terry Schiavo
This ghost would be pretty darned harmless. Yeah, it'd be pretty downright creepy, but anybody with toddlers or young children would appreciate this ghost at dinner time - especially after spending a half hour making pasta with broccoli.

Me What do you mean you don't want to eat the broccoli? They're Godzilla trees! Godzilla loves to eat those trees.
Fletchmonster No.
O-Dog I hate Godzilla trees.
Me Come on, guys. One bite.
Boys No!
Me All right you little bastages. I've been in this kitchen for an hour already. You don't eat dinner and I'm throwing your asses in that room with the Schiavo ghost.
Boys Gnarf gnarf gnarffffff....
Me That's better.

I'm sure there are plenty of other ghosts out there that might be fun to have around... Share some laughs with John Candy, throw some bevvies back with W.A. Mozart, attend the next in-law party with Lizzie Borden, bitch-slap with Rick James or attend the Winter Olympics with Sonny Bono.

With my luck I'd just get stuck with a Patrick Swayze or something... trying to give me the reach-around at the potter's wheel. (shudder.)

Time™ Scrapes Bottom of Barrel

2007-01-11T20:14:00.000-05:00

I used to care about who'd grace the cover of Time Magazine's Man (Person) of the Year issue. It used to be World 'Leaders' or people who accomplished something monumental... Occasionally it was bestowed upon some vague concept like "Endangered Earth" (1988) or a demographic like "American Broads" (1975) or "Cannon Fodder and Hippies" (1966). Now they finally got around to recognizing yours truly. Unfortunately, I've got plenty of company...

Steven F*nk, for instance, this week's host, for starters.

I for one am not feeling that Disney® sh*t. Give me someone who cured a disease or something (starting with that f*cked up acronym that killed my mom), not some botard attention seeker on YouTube.

Stop by Funk-man of the Year's Serenade in Green blog. Give him some props, or better yet, who'd make a better choice? My second vote goes to this freak right here....

What an accomplishment. Really.

MIA: Winter

2007-01-07T16:11:00.000-05:00

I never watch the weather broadcasts. Mrs. P always wants to, but I don't. On the rare occasion we're watching the news together, the following conversation ensues (or any variation thereof):

Mrs. P Don't change it. I want to watch the weather.
Prego Why? Anybody beyond the age of twelve has already become familiarized with the weather patterns in their area. Why do you need an over-educated chowderhead to tell you what the weather's like?
Mrs. P I wanna know what the weather's going to be like tomorrow...
Prego It's either gonna rain or it ain't. Why? Were you thinking about having a picnic?
(TV Volume gets turned up.)

April? 40º-50º F. Mostly sunny.

August? 60% chance of skanky shorts and halter tops.

October? 50º, with overnight lows in the high 30ºs.

November to March? Up to our cobbles in snow... Which is precisely why I'm starting to freak out a little.

We haven't had a goddamned bit of snow since mid-October.

As far as I can recall, living in Buffalo, I can count on a couple of things:

There's always going to be a steady crew of industrious rummies pushing rusty shopping carts up and down the streets looking for returnable soda pop and beer cans.
Bars will be open until four a.m., from where a population of pudgy bar sluts can stumble home sans bra, reeking of Crown Royal, mayonnaise and frat boy sweat, and
Mrs. P will pester me to shovel snow from the 30' of sidewalk in front of the Prego household (to no avail), only to wind up doing it herself.

We're already heading into mid-January, and our temperature has been generally in the 40ºs. While neighbors and assorted idiots sing the praises of the global warming dilemma, I'm a little saddened that we've managed to seriously f*ck up our habitat. It's to the point that though I was going to wait until spring to teach my son to skateboard, I can probably do so tomorrow.

I even saw a few squirrels today. One of them had the paunch of a latter-day Elvis and could be seen smoking a spliff and eating Jared Fogle's Subway™ leftovers. Normally, this squirrel would have the physique of one of the Strokes and be rationing his nuts and cigarette butts this time of year.

All the charms of the winter solstice are amiss. Instead, earthworms litter the sidewalk, weeds are sprouting on lawns and bears are walking around with bloodshot eyes:

Mrs. Bear Munch... munch... munch... I need to get some sleep.
Mr. Bear Just eat, baby.
Baby Bear Like, oh... my... gawd. I am so gaining my freshman fifteen. I am such a cow.
Mr. Bear Groan. I'm heading over to the Squrrel's to smoke a fat one.

Somewhere in our community there's a pudenda under a thick brush of winter bush, feeling all dressed up with nowhere to go:

Housefraü (to mons pubis) It's the machete for you....
Husband (to himself) Thank god.... It feels like a scouring pad. Bless you, greenhouse gases.

Maybe it's just me. Yeah, ordinarily I'm cursing the f*cking gods this time of year, scraping off a stubborn, yet life affirming inch-thick layer of ice off my windshield before heading to work. Usually I'm making a mad dash from the parking lot to work, with a snotscicle forming under my nose and the frigid sting of thousands of tiny needles on my ears (because I can never find my winter hat).

One winter as a kid, I blew a huge bubble of gum -- it fell from my chapped lips and shattered on the sidewalk. I swear to Satan.

Today? I'm looking out the window to see the sad drizzle of a temperate Buffalo. No icicles. No cloud of steam as I exhale. No need for a half bag of rock salt to melt the front stoop for the mailman. Damn...

Jack Frost... Mother Nature, wherever the f*ck you are... I miss you. Dearly. Please come soon.

Prego

2007-01-04T08:18:00.000-05:00

As much as I can't stand Sting, he was right about one thing: don't stand so close to me.

In that spirit, Sereena hosts the roundtable this week. Her topic? Crowded elevators, people steppin' up on yo' grill and phobic metatarsals.

Enough to Make Deney Terrio Cringe

2007-01-02T12:02:00.000-05:00

I'm not going to belabour the demise of Saddam Hussein with yet another insignificant opinion. Dude's dead. War still rages.

What I want to know is what gives with that goofy-*ss dance some Iraqis were doing in the streets? Alternately stepping side to side while pointing up in the air is a rather silly looking jig to perform when the bane of your existence dangles on the gallows. It makes you look like a retarded stunt double on The Smurfs.

No Dutty Wine? No jooba? Not even a "cabbage patch"?! It makes me wonder if Saddam had killed all choreographers during his reign.

Sh*t.... Even the Ickey Shuffle has more panache. Iraqis should be ashamed.

What Do You Say to a Woman With Two Black Eyes?

2006-12-29T11:35:00.000-05:00

Domestic battery is no joking matter. I mean, every three minutes a woman is beaten. You'd think she'd either shut up for once, or just leave the house. (lackluster rim shot/cymbal crash)

I remember twenty years ago or so, seeing the now classic Nolte/Murphy comedy 48 Hours. In one early scene, Nolte greets a couple of fellow cops, asking one of them, "How's the wife?"

"Mean as a snake," he replies.

As a thirteen year-old, this kind of humor escapes you, but seeing the film again years later, I found this remark not only hilarious, but at times I might even relate to it.

Like virtually every couple, Mrs. P and I have our occasional spats (this blog entry, for instance, might start another one). To even things up around the household, I gave Mrs. P, among other things, cutlery for Christmas. Recently, my friends Brother James, Skip and I discussed the pros and pons of such a gift:

Brother James I'll never give my wife knives. She actually pulled a knife on me once when she was pissed.
Prego Sh*t. I had no idea she had such a temper.
Brother James Dude, you have no idea.
Prego The worse I've been assaulted with was a flying loaf of French bread.

Skip Actually, if you're going to get stabbed with a kitchen knife, you're better off getting stabbed by a good one. It'd give you a clean cut, which is easier to close up.
Prego That's true. That would be easier to suture. Or if things turn out for the worse, it might make for a quicker death.

Seriously, despite being struck in the forehead with the aforementioned crusty projectile, I have never once considered striking the missus, regardless of how psychotic she might get. We also have the murder-suicide pact in place (if she considers it, she does the suicide part first).

We pretty much have our routine:

She flips out for something I deem insignificant and begins a tirarde.
I calmly tell her I don't want to talk about it.
This gets her angrier and more irrational.
I start twirling my finger around my right ear in the Internationally recognized "Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs" sign, leaving the room.
Mrs. P goes off the deep end and follows me from room to room.
I begin to seethe a bit and a couple "Will you shut-the-f*ck-up?" begin to emerge.
Mrs. P storms off to cry it out.
I go walk the dog or something.
One of us apologizes, we may or may not have "make-up" sex... and
Rinse and repeat every three or four months.

Mrs. P is very lucky I've got the "On/Off" switch permanently set to "Off." You know the one. The one that gets switched "on" right before the police arrive to cart off the 38 year old male, wearing a tank top and a surly yet embarrassed expression on his mug. One of her relatives, however, found herself to be not as fortunate.

I can picture the scene this past Christmas Eve (a useless "holiday" that seems to matter more to the ladies than the gents, regardless of religious denomination). The National Football League must have hired the world's biggest misogynist sh*thead to do the schedule this year, because I'm sure as ferret sh*t that this wasn't an isolated incident.

The Buffalo Bills get handed yet another loss this season, as the stadium empties out 80,000 + inebriated and annoyed fans into households in the Greater Buffalo region... Among them, my wife's relative's husband.

Our protagonist Frank arrives home in the Hamlet of Ebenezer:

Frank hic. hic. hic.... (opens door)
Judy (Voice of Dino Flintstone) Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....
Frank Groan.... hic. hic. hic....
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... Christmas... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... My parents... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... F*cking Bills game... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... the presents... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....

Frank Gesnarfff... hic. hic. hic.... God dammnit... grishmasss tomorrow with the hic. hic. hic....
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....

Frank Shut the f*ck up...
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....!
Frank SHUT THE (hic) UP!
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....!!!!
Frank GwaaaaaaHHHH!

(Flurry of slaps, punches and kicks ensue)
Outro: Tammy Wynette's "Stand By Your Man"

From what I know about the aftermath, it resulted in handcuffs, restraining orders and a probable parting of ways. It's sad, really. I can picture the cops arriving at the scene.

Officer Smith: Hey Jack. How's the wife?
Officer Jones: Mean as a snake.

Of course, Mrs. P wants to know how I feel about the whole scenario, to which I've resorted to giving a stock response - courtesy of comedian Chris Rock:

"I ain't sayin' I agree... but I understand...."

(Crusty loaf of Italian bread sails over my head).

Seriously, I realize alcohol is an anti-inhibitor - those of you who've bedded a 300 lb. member of the opposite sex can attest to that (cough... my brother). We've all made some dubiouos choices. I was sober when I met Mrs. P, but was three hockey beers to the wind when I proposed. Let's hope somebody gave Frank an "On/Off" switch for Christmas and taught him how to set it permanently to "off"...

You'll have bad times And he'll have good times
Doing things that you don't understand
But if you love him you'll forgive him
Even though he's hard to understand...

1994

2006-12-29T08:43:00.000-05:00

That was the year my brother came up with his hackneyed idea to go to Alaska for the summer to make some cash gutting fish.

"You're not going alone," I told him.

A week later I quit my sh*tty cubicle banking job, packed up his Hyundai Excel hatchback with everything we thought we needed & drove across the country. After a stop in Minneapolis, MN, (nearly killing ourselves on the road the next day) and Billings, MT (where we thought we were going to get iced by a couple of 'cowboys') we arrived in Seattle. After milling about that burg for a couple days we flew into Valdez, AK, where we spent months jamming sharp objects into a fish's touch-hole "for a living."

I'll never forget our first day there, where after leaving our belongings in the factory's dormitory we took a stroll to the local liquor store.

"What kind of beer should we get?" my brother queried as we scanned the long list.

Our eyes made our way down the list, not by label but by price.

"Lucky Lager," we both agreed. Given our limited finances, the 99¢ price tag for 40 oz. was our best bet. We'd never heard of it, and franky it probably tasted like unpalatable sh*t, but it carried us through that summer along with "other stuff,"goofy hippie chicks and the feeling of not having a f*cking care in the world.

To me, 1994 is the touchstone... one I will strive to have again, yet know full well it's unattainable. Bad-Ass Atul hosts this week's and wants to know "What's yours?" What was the best year you ever had? Do you wish you were eighteen again or do you yearn for a whole summer, getting drunk with your brother whilst standing in fish entrails and living in a tent with maggots for neighbours?

"Stardust" Memories

2006-12-26T11:47:00.000-05:00

I got a Christmas present from Apple this week. My iPod took a sh*t, wiping out 8,392 songs. Oh well. My fault for not backing up all the files. Out of the misery, though comes this little bit of sunshine. While rifling through some unlabled discs I found this classic rock video, starring a then two-year-old O-Dog.

Unfortunately, these days he's a little too self-aware to pull off an impromptu performance. Hopefully he'll grow out of this phase soon, since I told him he's one of the last hopes to save rock from the doldrums. He's already enlisted the Flecthmonster to help him do so.

Rock over London! Rock on Chicago!

Happy Christmas

2006-12-25T00:01:00.000-05:00

Have a nice, quiet Christmas day.

(Below is a Prego original. When it comes to my Christmas cards, nobody ever 'gets' them, though a lot of people get them.)

Peace,
Prego & Family

Holiday Four Play!

2006-12-23T09:36:00.000-05:00

For some reason, Christmas ups the ante for songwriters. Yeah, hits come and go, but if you write yourself a kick-ass Christmas ditty, you might find yourself immortalized along with Leroy Anderson, Tepper & Brodsky, and that *sshole who wrote the "Two Front Teeth" song.

Even churchy music never sounded so good. As a kid, I always looked forward to the time when they busted out the holiday hymnal.

Godless as I am, I still enjoy holiday music today. I'm not a big fan of the goofy, tongue-in-cheek ilk, such as "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus". For some reason they always find some windy, extroverted Broadway-type kid to belt it out as if his fledgling career depended on it. I do, however, enjoy sh*t like Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack and choral arrangements like the "Carol of the Bells."

Then, there's the off-the-beaten-path classics. For instance, the works of Captain Sensible, Ze Malibu Kids, the Descendents and the Pogues.

"Who?" you ask. Well, I won't go into biographical details. I'll just let the music speak for itself.

From the maudlin to the forlorn... the farcical to the cynical, here's a selection you'll not likely hear on KRAP-FM.

Enjoy.

My Christmas Was in June mp3 Ze Malibu Kids
My Christmas Was in June mp3 "glossy" Beu Sisters version
One Christmas Catalogue mp3 Captain Sensible
Fairytale of New York mp3 The Pogues w/Kirsty MacColl
Christmas Vacation mp3 Descendents

Back to the Drawing Board

2006-12-21T13:58:00.000-05:00

In keeping with the 'spirit' of the holidays, I thought I'd dig up this old chestnut.

It actually started as a Christmas card I sent a while back, but it launched a 'career.'

I had a brief stint as an editorial cartoonist with a local rag. I had to shelve it when I got a little too busy with my college courses. Now that I'm done I'm hoping I can get back in the saddle somehow in 2007.

Here's a link to my personal favourite.

Dig.

p

There I Go, Turn the Page

2006-12-21T13:18:00.000-05:00

RW started a story... but writers block being what it is... Stop by Chasing Vincenzo to help him flesh it out.

It's one of those 'tag team story' exercises. Let's see which direction it takes.

Sores for Sight Eyes

2006-12-16T14:12:00.000-05:00

A while ago, I was riding shotgun in my brother's car, enjoying a Whoppertunity, when my brother points out a gaggle of attractive college hotness.

"Check 'em out... Check 'em out!"
"Dude, we're eating f*cking hamburgers. Nobody looks sexy eating a hamburger."

My brother got a good laugh over this observation and concurred. There's no point in establishing eye contact with the opposite gender with burger-juice dripping on your chin. I remembered this exchange as I watched a robust woman driving her S.U.V. whilst handling a hefty sandwich.

Unfortunately, if you're well-upholsered, you never look good eating. I saw this personified during the last faculty meeting, as I watched a co-worker who probably tips the scale at close to three bills alternately munching on potato chips and Doritos™. Aside from the guilt-ridden thoughts of "no wonder," the mere aesthetics of watching you reach into a crinkly bag make this top the don't do list.

Not that I'm an authority on this, but I am going to take the liberty in pointing out other situations one might not look best. Fat, skinny, old, slack-jawed, hirsute, tall... take heed. You do not look good when:

Handcuffed - Regardless of the situation*, it is impossible to look your best when manacled. It greys your complexion and darkens your aura. The police report might read disorderly conduct, but you know we're all thinking date rape, assault and battery, petty theft or getting caught soliciting sexual acts from a pimply midget...

* (...unless, of course, you're cuffed to a bedpost of a blazing hot red-head with nipples the size of stop signs and the demeanor of a rabid ocelot. If she defecates on your chest and leaves with your wallet, the above assessment applies.)

In Court - No Armani or Donna Karan suit in the world can hide the fact that you are somehow a threat to the public, a philandering wife/husband, child abuser, scofflaw or attorney. If you are a defendant, despite the fact that you are a sharp dresser, you are no better than the guy wearing the striped Zubaz pants and Kansas City Chiefs t-shirt who's facing domestic abuse charges.

Purchasing Sh*t-tickets - I understand that we all have to wipe our *sses or cooches, but there is no way to look alluring when throwing the 66¢ rolls of supermarket brand a**wipes atop your arugula, edamame and whole grain Monks' bread. My suggestion is to wait until 3 a.m., when the sh*theels stuck with the graveyard shift can ring you up. They're usually sleeping while we're awake, thus lessening the chance of overhearing them tell a friend that "there's the guy who wipes his turdcutter with the cheap sandpaper toilet tissue."

In Queues - This is particularly bad if you're waiting in line for something free, in the company of other skin-flints or the pauperized. Occasionally this can't be helped, such as in the supermarket but you definitely help your cause by following the aforementioned 3 a.m. sh*t ticket rule. Standing in line for something like RENT has a high choad-factor, and getting a pair of tickets for you and your boyfriend to go see Because I Said So make you look like a heartless wench. Other queues you don't want to find yourself in are the at the boot camp medical examiners', the methadone clinic, a porn shop or (gasp) communion.

At All-You-Can-Eat Establishments - Somehow we found ourselves where we started, though there is no way to look toothsome while piling a plate full of waxy mashed potatoes, shoe-leather steaks or the salad bar, where the lettuce is more bruised than a housewife that doesn't know then to shut up. The "closed for business" sign on your blind date's chocha will spring up quicker than you can say, "Mmmm. Sausage."

You don't have to be Diamond Jim to find affordable eats. There's no need to look like a gluttonous water buffalo for $7.99. You might also want to avoid those places that let you throw peanut shells on the floor.

There you have it... but as LeVar Burton says "You don't have to take my word for it."

Gotta go. My wife wants me to take her to Denny's for a Moon Over My Hammy®. I have to find a bag to put over my head.

What a Draaaag it is Getting Oooold...

2006-12-14T22:55:00.000-05:00

I had a physical recently, and thankfully they didn't have to jam a kielbasa-sized finger in my *ss to check the prostate. I'm entitled to that treat next year. I shouldn't complain much, since the ladies are poked and prodded periodically during their physical examinations. Moreover, my dad beat that prostate cancer sh*t a little while ago - that hit a little close to home.

Dr. Beth Any problems?
Me Other than occasionally sh*tting a rose bush and a bit of pain in my rotator cuff...
Dr. Beth Well anytime you want to get that taken care of... You're looking at a couple months without hockey.
Me Whew. Shoulder's good. Shoulder's good.

I've grown accustomed to getting thrown a clean bill of health as I'm shown the exit - with one eye kept on the blood pressure. This time the doc chided me for blowing off the blood tests last year.

"All right... All right. I'll go."

It took me about two or three months to get around to it, with the Dr.'s request form becoming increasingly smudged with foot prints on the floor of my car. I went in for my complimentary pricking and came home to take a nap.

Fast forward a couple of weeks:

Mrs. P Did you call the doctor's office?
Me No. Why?
Mrs. P They left a message.

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhk.

I'd never gotten a call over a blood test before, so I knew it couldn't be good. Of course I didn't call the doc back for a couple of days.

Mrs. P Did you call the doctor's office yet?
Me Uh... not yet.
Mrs. P CALL them!

Three days later...

Rinnnnnnngggggg....

Me Hello.
S0 & So Hi. This is So & So from Dr. Beth's office.
Me Oh yes. I meant to call you.
So & So Uh-huh. I'm just calling about your blood test.
Me Oh?

So & So Yeah. Just a couple things. You really need to watch that cholesterol. It's a little up there. Fortunately you also have high levels of good cholesterol...
Me There's good cholesterol?
So & So Yeah, which is why it's not that much of a concern, but you should still watch it.
Me No problem...

So & So Then there's the issue of your blood sugar.
Me My what?
So & So We ran a couple tests on it, just in case you snuck in a sugar doughnut or two that evening.
Me Heh.
So & So But it looks like you're sugar's a little high. You're bordering on diabetic.
Me You're kidding me?
So & So Yeah. You really need to watch that, too. So if you eat a lot of ice cream for example... maybe skip a couple days or two.

Me All right. Thanks.
So & So You're welcome. We'd like to test you again in about six months to see how you're doing.
Me Ok.
So & So Will you remember?
Me Sure.

I hung up the phone, put a couple of cookies in my mouth and went to hang out with the boys. After years of deluding myself with the idea the misconception that I'd been taken care of myself, I now envisioned myself clutching my chest at the Fletchmonster's kindergarten graduation or losing my foot like f*cking Ralph Cramden in that movie with Tom Hanks.

While out to lunch with the Fletchmonster and Mrs. P, I suggested that what the doctor in fact did was ruin every f*cking meal I'd ingest for the rest of my life. It'd either be healthy and taste like sh*t, or I'd actually look for my sad reflection in the grease, knowing that each mouthful would push me closer to the grave.

On the other hand, it could be a blessing in disguise. Mrs. P went on the warpath for something I already forgot about. I was re-caping the events for my best friend Doug.

Me Yeah. I used to think about stepping in front of a truck when she gets like that. Now I just felt like jamming a couple of Twinkies™ in my mouth.
Doug Heh. With a side of bacon.

Well, nothing lasts forever... even cold November rain. Even still, I would like to at least stick around to watch the Fletchmonster make it to second grade. I suppose an alfalfa sprout sandwich washed down with soy milk is a small price to pay.

2006-12-14T14:15:00.000-05:00

I'll give you one guess as to what my first activity is in the morning.

(rrrrnnnnnnnttttt) WRONG! It's checking to see what my "fantasy hockey" players did the previous night -- then I take a sh*t.

John Sadowski hosts this week's and would like to know, where does your surfing day begin.

(plop. plip. flush...... That was a mercy flush, brothers and sisters.)

Dirty Laundry

2006-12-13T13:53:00.000-05:00

Mrs. P and I have a lot of "difference of opinion" issues. I, for one, cannot stand television, particularly Rachel Ray shows or where OR scrubs are part of the wardrobe. Actually, we have a lot of "wardrobe" issues. For instance, I think she could show a bit of those nice Mrs. P gams or cleavage once in a while, rather than the modestly conservative garb she dons. I like to have the kids dress a little "edgy," where as she thinks the jeans with the torn knees that O-Dog refers to as his punk rock pants make us look poor if he wears them to kindergarten (not that we aren't).

One of the most frequent events in which we find ourselves at loggerheads concerns the laundry process itself. On more than one occasion, Mrs. P has gone off on a tirade because I have left either a fountain pen or a crayon in my pants, thus causing an entire load of wash to be sullied with ink or wax.

Now, I'm not one to lead a gift horse to water. I appreciate that she actually does 98% of the wash (another sore subject). However, I do tend to think that ultimate responsibility to "dummy check" the pockets lies with the last person to handle the clothes before they are put into the washing machine -- especially when the owner of the pants is an absent-minded dumb*ss like myself. Mrs. P disagrees.

Apparently, those polled are almost equally divided on the issue. I'm going to stand by my opinion; entrench myself is more like it - in ankle deep piles of spotty underwear.

You Dropped an "F" Bomb on Me, Baby.

2006-12-07T16:41:00.000-05:00

My brother has become really irritated with me lately. It bothers him that I've become nearly saint-like when it comes to my language. What really bugs him is when I groan at him, roll my eyes or flat out chastise him for commenting that "She was f*cking fire hot," or yelling "F*ck Mel Gibson, that NAZI *sshole."

It's not that I'm pious or priggish. It's that he does that in front of the goddamned kids. He doesn't have the presence of mind that censors one's choice expletives because there are kids in the back seat, the kitchen or the lobby of the Greater Buffalo International Airport.

I, on the other hand, have grown quite accustomed to spelling sh*t out in front of the lads. I'm not that good, though.

Mrs. P: You're a jerk, you know that.
Prego: Eff - you, man. I'm sick of your S-H-I-crap.

My brother, in the meantime, doesn't let me forget that I once referred to babies as "c*nt turkeys," and that I used the "F" word like a mathematician uses parentheses. Those f*cking days are long gone - at least when speaking. Writing is another story altogether.

Suzanne perfects the fine art of procastination by hosting this week's from Seattle f*cking WA. She wants to know what some of your favourite 'choice' words are.

Some in my daily personal repertoire include (besides S-H-I-crap):
What the fudgescicles!
F*ckscicles
Jesus, Mary and Curtis Joseph.
Mother pus bucket.
(I don't give a) flying rat's ass.
Sh*tbird.
Sh*theel.
Sh*tballs.
Shut the H-E f*cking hell up!

That's just the printable tip of the iceberg. Pay her a friendly f*cking visit...

O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and Arborcide

2006-12-04T16:59:00.000-05:00

The boys and I took a walk to the Lexington General Store around the corner, to haul home a Douglas Fir for the holiday season. Part of the charm of living where we live is that we can take a short stroll with the Radio Flyer wagon and haul back anything from a couple of pizzas to a snowboard or a chainsaw. In this case, all we needed was the tree and a half-gallon of milk.

After we got the dead tree home, O-Dog had to leave for yet another birthday party, leaving the Fletchmonster and I to "hang like gentlemen" at home. He took it a bit better than he did last week, and spent the evening entertaining me on the piano while I stood the tree up and put the lights on.

The scope and breadth of the average two year-old's experiences were glaringly evident, as the Fletchmonster announced "This one's called, "I Gotta Go Poopee and Pee-Pee," before he starts pounding on the ivories.

Once the tree and lights were set up, we waited for the O-Dog to come home to help with the ornaments, lets we cause a meltdown of the "I wanted to help with the ornaments!" persuasion. Basically, neither of the boys showed any interest, once the Batman & Robin ornaments were in place, leaving Mrs. P and I to do the bulk of the work.

You'll notice I took care to ensure that my favourite ornament, Oscar the Grouch, was placed prominently at approximate eye level. I do base my life on his teachings, you know.

The Saga Continues...

2006-12-04T16:29:00.000-05:00

It looks like I'm getting a couple weeks to atone for my transgressions (even though my opponent and I 'kissed' and made up. I like the use of the word "crime" in my captain's e-mail, though.

Oh, well. Time to find a couple friendly "pick up" games over the next couple weeks. What's funny is that Sunday morning, my good friend and hockey mentor Bill and I found ourselves on opposite teams during our weekly "pick up" game. Going after the same puck, he gives me a stiff forearm across the chest, sending me flying to the ice.

"You're not gooning me, pal."

I've been humbled.

From: E
Sent: Monday, December 04, 2006 9:11 AM
To: F (Warriors) (E-mail)
Subject: Hockey
Importance: High

F,
Just making sure you know that Prego received a fighting misconduct at last game which means he must sit the next (2) games. That is the minimum suspension time for fighting.

E

From: F
Subject: RE: Hockey
Date: December 4, 2006 2:40:41 PM EST
To: e
E, I would like to formally appeal this suspension. Although Prego was wrong in throwing the first punch it does take 2 to tango and the opposing player is just as guilty as Prego and should be forced to sit at least a game. I mean Bryan K threw 2 punches after the refs jumped in and the only explanation I got from the refs for not throwing him out was “What would you do if you were punched?”

Prego should not have thrown a punch but far worse had been done in this game with no whistles. Slew footing behind the play, boarding, 2 handed slashes and charging to name a few. Either way he was wrong and should have been thrown out. I am not going to make a big deal about last game but the officiating was as bad as it ever was both ways. They had no control over this game whatsoever and someone could have been seriously injured. The league needs to address both refs involved and have a talk with them. They were terrible.

Please let me know what we can do in regards to the appeal. Prego’s punishment is far worse than the crime.

Thank You,
F

Enter the "Dra-Goon"

2006-12-01T15:52:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid I had the misfortune of having an older sister who liked to "fight my battles." I questioned her motives, wondering if it wasn't so much to protect her kin or because she enjoyed the confrontations. I'm guessing it was more of the latter; though she has long since lost the bloodthirst for physical confrontation, she still enjoys the occasional verbal tête à tête.

What this translated into for Prego were the additional ass-kickings that ensued.

"Your sister's not (punch) here to save your ass now, f*ck-face (kick)."

Eventually, the ass kickings stopped. My sister lost interest and I actually fought back once. It was in Venezuela, circa 1983 when a new kid in the neighbourhood who wanted to prove himself rang the doorbell at my friend's house, announcing "I heard you wanted to fight," right before he swung a punch to the side of my head. The vision in my right eye blurred at the blow while something inside me snapped. I lunged at the *sshole with everything I could muster, catching him off-guard. I forgot how we were finally separated, but for weeks after the fight, the kid would simply walk by me and give me a nod, or a "What's up?"

In a way, that was my personal ass kicker's debutante ball, because I don't think I had to fight anymore after that. Yeah, I got jumped by a Guido in Buffalo around 1987, but I pretty much avoided conflicts altogether. I usually like to keep it that way, unless I'm wearing skates.

I don't know what it is about hockey, but every once in a while the tempers flare. Knowing that I'm donning protective equipment and a cage across my face might add to my bravado, so occasionally I get involved in a tussle. Maybe that's why I find myself near the top of the league in penalty minutes (PIM).

Usually, I find myself on the scoresheet with a couple of tripping or hooking calls. Thursday night, however, I racked some up in a most un-Prego fashion. One of the opposing players took exception to me tying him up in front of my goalie to prevent him from digging up a rebound and scoring. He decides to push back violently with his elbows. I shove back.

The next thing I know, I've got a face full of irate, yelling god knows what - to which I reply, "F*ck you," with a quick gloved swat to his cage.

"Grrrrrrraaaaaaawrrrr! I'm going to f*cking kill you!" he says, as he lunges at me over his teammates' shoulders.
"Go ahead," was my calm reply.
"I'm right here!" he continues, as we are separated by the officials and other players.

As I start skating towards the penalty box, the referee looks at me and points in the other direction.

"What?"
"You're gone," he explains. "Game misconduct."

One of the guys on the other team explains succinctly "Punch in the face. Bye-bye, f*cking *sshole."

My nemesis remained on the ice. Despite the life threatening remarks and his part in the mêlée, I had thrown the only punch, and was thus ejected. I looked at the clock to see only nine minutes had elapsed. Worse yet, I'd only skated three shifts. As I entered the locker room, I felt quite alone - just me and some empty hockey bags. Though I hadn't even broken a sweat yet, I took a shower and went back to watch the rest of the game.

A couple of my teammates glanced over the glass, smiled or gave me a nod.

"What'd you do, take a psycho pill today?" asked Higgins.

It was a long game to watch, given the fact that ordinarily I'd be participating. I obviously hoped my team would win, making my blowout worthwhile somehow.

We did.

At the end of the game, the teams shake hands. I stood at the entrance to the rink and, who should come skating towards me but the same gentleman with whom I'd tangled. I braced myself for the worst, figuring out what to do if things got ugly again. As soon as he was about ten feet from me a wide smile came across his face as he extended his hand.

I took his hand and we gave each other a friendly hug.

"It's hockey, man," I told him.
"Good game," he replies.

(Yeah. All f*cking nine minutes of it.)

Have I joined the ranks of Stu Grimson, Bobby Probert, Joey Kocur or Dave "Tiger" Williams? Not quite. Doubtfully. Maybe I just joined the ranks of my sister. She was on to something.

Like a Caged Rat, eh?

2006-11-30T09:35:00.000-05:00

This past Sunday the O-Dog had a doubleheader of birthday parties. Unfortunately, the first one was one that the Fletchmonster had to sit out. His heartbreaking cries of "I want to go with mommy and O.D." made the daddy-tears well up.

"Don't worry, Fletch. We'll hang out like gentlemen."
"I don't want to hang out like gentlemen. I want to go with mommy. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

As Mrs. P and the O-Dog left, I was left with a wailing two year-old.

Any parent knows that the quickest way to stop a kid from crying is to put him in the car and tell him you're going to buy him something. I thought I'd take a quick jaunt to Ft. Erie in Canada to buy myself some hockey elbow pads (the cheap, sh*tty pair I currently own did little to protect me from a weak-ass shot from the point). Also, the Fountain Plaza ice rink should be opening any day and it's time to throw the Fletch into the size 7 Bauer skates. I figured I'd get him a helmet while I was there.

For the geographically impaired, Ft. Erie is on the other side of the Niagara River from Buffalo, NY. We live five minutes from the Peace Bridge and the Canadian Tire store is about another 8 minutes away. Going through Canadian customs is usually a breeze, so I figured the whole trip might take an hour or less...

I turned to take the bridge and got an eye-full of Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhk!

There was a back up of about two to three miles of what my Canuck brother-in-law calls "cheap-ass Canadians" coming into the U.S. to take advantage of our crappy Crap-mas sales over the holiday weekend.

I felt like that Flick kid in "A Christmas Story" as soon as he put his tongue on the lamp post.

"Stuck? Stuck! Waah-hah haaaaaaaW! (painful wails continue).

Short of making an international incident causing u-turn in the middle of the bridge (brown people like me get shot first and get questions asked later when doing anything unusual), I bit my lip and headed into Ontario.

Customs Official: Purpose of your visit.
Prego: Well, I was just going to take a quick trip over to Canadian Tire, but...(Customs Official winces and grimaces...) I think I picked a bad day...
Customs Official: Yeah. I'd say so.
Prego: ... so I'm probably going to pay a visit to my sister in Thorold, ON.
Customs Official: Yeah. You might want to extend your stay a little. Go ahead.

I drove the 20 minutes to Thorold, short of breath... suffocating from feeling trapped in the land of hosers, curling and (shudder...) politesse.

In the meanwhile, the Fletch was chatting me up from the back seat.
"You getting me a hockey helmet? Where's the store, daddy? Am I going to see my cousins, daddy?"

"Yes, buddy. We're close. Yes, buddy."

I pulled into Canadian tire and browsed the aisles for hockey gear. Bingo. On sale, $16 cdn for a pair of elbow pads. Sweet. Now where are those helmets?

I located them in the next aisle. $50 cdn? Jesus! I put one on the Fletch's head, at his request. The vision of my handsome toddler behind the facemask evoked fantasies of the Fletch-Master General leading the Maple Leafs to their first Stanley Cup win since 1967... or becoming a stalwart defenceman for the Edmonton Oilers...

Sh*t like that? 50 scoots is a baaaahr-gain. In the end, it was almost worth getting stuck in Canada, eh?

For the record, I paid my sister and her family a 40 minute visit before I decided to head back to the U.S. I managed to spend an hour and a half in Niagara Falls, inching my way towards and across the Rainbow Bridge, trying to maintain my composure. Remember, brown people like me get shot and get asked questions later.

...Put a Nickel in the Drum...

2006-11-30T08:06:00.000-05:00

I'd always thought the Salvation in Salvation Army was derived from the term "salvage", as in "Let's salvage that ratty-ass couch and sell it to some college kid for $15."

At some point I made the connection of "salvation" and jesusness, at which point I stopped buying the $15 couches. It also changed the tone of those little bells some schlep has to peal in front of the local Piggly Wiggly. It started sounding less "Hear ye! Hear ye!" and a bit more "Haaaaa-leluia." In either case, I usually bury my head and dart past, unless I have a pocketful of loose change, in which case I toss them in and pay my holiday tax.

SK Waller, the Incurable Insomniac found a bit of "Haaaaa-leluia" actually made her afternoon. Surprising, since she doesn't seem to beat the jesus drum any more than I do. Ring her bell at this week's roundtable. How do you handle the ringers: avoid eye contact by looking at the road salt and poinsettia displays? Toss in a fiver and say "Bless-sed be thou and thine?" throw them a deke by fumbling for your pockets only to pull out your car keys? The Insomniac might need some pointers. We might lose her to the light side.

Thanks...

2006-11-22T23:54:00.000-05:00

... to myself for leaving the digital camera in the back seat of the car.

An O-Dog self-portrait...

...and a snapshot of his brother.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving holiday.

Tonight I'm Going to Potty Like It's 1399

2006-11-21T21:37:00.000-05:00

Scene #1
I've got a thing about 'dook' . It might be because my mother, frustrated that I kept sh*tting myself at the age of three or four, stuck me (coated in sh*t) in the bathtub and left me there. I don't remember, really. My aunt likes to tell me the story of how she came in and washed me off. The end result is that I get really skeeved out about all things fecal. I have a hypersensitive gag reflex that makes me coil in disgust whenever there are O.P.S.S.s in the toilet basin or if I have to wipe off the stuff I sprayed all over the rim after a night of Old Mil-yuckee and burritos.

I'm one of those guys that likes to mummify his arm with sh*t-tickets before I wipe my soiled ass crack, lest the toilet paper accidentally shift, exposing my index finger and getting a smear across it. Even with this failproof method of avoiding actual contact with excrementum, I still have to wash after a trip to the loo.

That's why I can't understand why the dude whose legs I saw under the toilet stall at the library managed to walk past me at the urinal and exit the facilities without a quick stop at the sink.

The first thought that crossed my grossed-out mind was "How the f*ck do I get out of here without touching any part of that door?"

And no. It mattered not that the gent was wearing wool gloves.

Fortunately there were paper towels on hand. Otherwise I'd have to wait patiently for somebody to enter so I could stick my foot in the door and make a sanitary getaway.

Scene #2
Person A: Did your mother teach you to wash your hands after you pee?
Person B: Of course.
Person A: Mine taught me not to piss on my fingers.

(unenthusiastic rim shot.)

Common 'guy' courtesy mandates that you never leave a hand hanging when a handshake is offered.
(Okay. You know where this is headed.)

Mrs. Prego and I were at the Town Ballroom this past weekend to take in the Supersuckers concert. (Greatest Rock and Roll Band in the World. More on that later.) I went to the bathroom to void, when whom should I see, but a casual acquaintance. Now the proper etiquette to acknowledge a compàdre in the john is a jut of the chin, followed by a "What's up?" as you shake off the drip.

This guy breached urinal decorum by finishing his piss and immediately giving me a cordial "Hey, what's going on, man?" as he extends his hand out for a shake.

Again, this is not a close friend... Just a guy who traveled the same social circles as I for the past 20 years whom I still occasionally see. Immediately I start hearing those piercing violins from the shower scene in Psycho and my eyes quickly scan his digits for any sign of piss dribble.

Faaaaaaaaaaahk.

The irony of the situation is that historically, extending one's hand either to wave "hello" or for a handshake was a symbol of goodwill that indicated "I am not going to kill you."

Here, then, we have this jester holding out his possibly infested hand for a greeting. I kept imagining all the things that could possibly have happened to his penis... hookers, circus midgets with herpes, gangrene or a mere U.T.I.

I equated the exchange to a banana with those unpleasant, pulpy brown spots that mom made me finish.

I thrust my hand out instintively and gave him a quick shake, making sure I unzipped and pissed with my left hand until I could manage to wash vigorously.

Next time I'm wearing wool gloves.

Sunday Night Four Play! - Volume 10

2006-11-18T20:12:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine who was a concert promoter once quipped that if he booked the Afghan Whigs to play in Buffalo, the only ones who'd show up would be "Prego and every girl he ever dated." Yeah, this might have been an unfair joke at the Whigs expense, who at the time might not have had the drawing power of say, Hootie & the Blowfish. Other than what might have amounted to a 'cult following,' the Whigs were a ripple in an ocean of music.

Their six album tenure yielded some outstanding soulful rock before they hung it up in 2001. Nestled among the rough, acerbic guitar-driven tracks were some silky smooth "touch" songs. They were alternately haunting and 'lovely' at the same time.

From their rendition of the Ass Ponys' "Mr. Superlove," (a wife-beater's lament) to their own "Let Me Lie to You" and it's imagery of infidelities, Greg Dulli & co. deliver some unconventionally romantic music. Three of the four tracks register high on the Prego Mellifluous Test™ by including the word "baby" in their lyrics. That's largely why they made their way onto almost every 'mix tape' I made - hence, my aforementioned friend's theory.

This is one for the Georges Dubœuf...

Enjoy.
Mr. Superlove mp3
Let Me Lie to You mp3
When We Two Parted mp3
Faded mp3

Instant Hipster: Just Add Ink

2006-11-15T22:10:00.000-05:00

About twelve years ago, I was sitting in my mother's living room watching television with my mom and my sister. I scratched my arm, revealing a glimpse of one of my tattoos to my sister. Now nobody in my family except for my brother knew about the encre, since getting inked would invariably piss my old school Venezuelan mother off.

Needless to say that my sister Zilt, Queen of Subtlety, outed me to my mom with a shrilling, "Oh my GAAAAAAAWD!!!! Is that a tattoo????!"

My mother immediately shot a stare in my direction with a look of horror and disappointment.

"¿Què?"

I had to hem and haw à la Ralph Cramden and began to appease my mom, who was lamenting in Spanish that I did not love her.

"¡Tù no me quieres!"

I had to reveal the tattoos to her, one by one while she asked me why I would do such a thing (followed by a derisive "pendejo.")

The real reason, of course, was to get chicks. When you're an average to dorky looking twenty-something, you pull out all the stops in your endless quest for tail (not that it worked...).

"I'm sorry ma, I do love you. I just thought they'd look cool, that's all."

Though my mom still wasn't happy about it, she soon forgot about them altogether. I had the foresight to get them done above the "unemployment line" (above the short sleeve of a t-shirt), so it's not like they were always in her face.

Now I'm not mentioning this to portray myself as a trendsetter or anything... Nor am I claiming to have put the 'ooh' in cool, but judging by the f*cking Rorschach tests that abound on the haunches, limbs and ankles of our youngsters, I'd say that the ink-fest has run its course.

No longer the mark of a convict, biker, stripper or general ne'er-do-well, tattoos dot the fleshy landscape like barnacles on a cruise ship. Hell, even one of my kid's teachers has a non-descript sh*tty ink job all over her neck. (Something tells me she'll be donning a turtle-neck type gown at her daughter's wedding some day)

Scholars and dolts alike decide to decorate themselves with a myriad of designs. I was DJ'ing at a bar a few years back when some dipsh*t enters the booth, showing off his fresh one.

"Uh, can you play some Black Flag in my honor?" he says as he demonstrates the logo of the punk rock band on his bicep.

"I didn't bring any, bro."

I lied. But I knew if I reached for Damaged or Slip it In I'd be tempted to jam it in his ass sideways. That's one rule for the guys: You don't tattoo a rock band anywhere on your body unless you were in it. There is no guarantee that a Hoobastank, Blink One-Eighty-Crap or Queens of the Stone Age tat will bring back sweet memories.

There's really no way to regulate them. It'd be tough to put together a Tattoo Commission or Review Board:

"Ms. Van Doren, we're happy to approve your request for a caduceus on your shoulder. We realize you're very excited to get into medical school. Congratulations."

or

"John, I'm getting pretty f*cking sick of these requests for 'tribal' sh*t on the small of the back. I'm denying this one."

Perhaps if this was in existence, I'd have been spared the sight of a water-buffalo pulling up her shirt to reveal, in addition to about 42 lbs of flab hanging over her belt, a crappy tribal job about nine inches above the crack of her ass. This, while she's puffing on a dangling cigarette, dropping her daughter off for kindergarten.

Those ubiquitous and tacky tribal jibbers creep up along with thong shot on our more svelte young ladies, but on occasion you get treated to a tattooed breast. Yeah, that's appealing.

Ladies, it just might be the old-fashioned in me, but the nipple is decoration enough for that titty. Pink, brown... small or the size of a stop sign, we don't care - just tweeze the hairs out. It's good enough. You don't need that jailhouse rose on it.

Maybe I just have to get with the times and be a little more open minded. I suppose I'll also have to stop cringing at those horrid looking facial piercings. You know the ones... where the marginally unattractive decide to make matters worse with a nice stud connecting their upper lip to their nostril.

I must be getting old... or not?

Have we actually changed our collective attitudes on tattoos?

Sunday Evening Four Play! - Volume 9

2006-11-12T16:56:00.000-05:00

My friend the Beercan worked at an indie record shop for years. He'd take trade-in CDs in and call us if there was something of interest to any of us.

"I scored you a CD. I don't know if you have it."
"What is it?" I asked.
"It's that Madonna ballads album."
"Oh cool," I said. "I don't have it. I'll come by to pick it up."

That afternoon I stopped into the store to pick up Something to Remember from him.

"You know," he remarks, "you're the only one I know who buys this stuff who's not a 'fella' (gay)."
"Yeah, I figured as much."

I walked out of Home of the Hits knowing that I was the only straight man in the Greater Buffalo Metropolitan Area with the entire Madonna catalogue.

I don't know why, when or how I earned this distinction, but I don't mind it. It got to the point where I'd buy those sh*tty bootleg European singles from the used bin, prompting my friend Marcel to chide, "I can't believe you just spent $4 on a crappy CD just to get another picture of Madonna."

I'll admit, I probably gave the crappy CD one listen, but I think deep down I only got it because of the Beercan's remark - that, and the fact that I'm kind of a completist when it comes to music. In other words, I have to own all the albums of bands I really like.

I found out I'm not alone. Months later, Midge came up in a conversation where my friend Clark admitted that he was also quite the fan. This was rather surprising, since Clark was a fixture in several garage-y type Buffalo bands like the Splat Cats and Doombuggy. He and his wife Tina mentioned that they belong to the "M.U.D. Club."

"Mud club? What's that?" I ask.
"Madonna's Underground Devotees."
"Ah. Count me in."

It's easy to love Midge, just as it is, apparently, to hold her in disdain. She's brash, has a big ego, likes to push people's buttons, shows them big ol' Madonna t*tties proudly and adopts African kids.

Frankly I could give a flying rat f*ck who she adopts or why. Hell. Some kid growing up in a sh*thole essentially just won the lottery. I'd feel bad for him if he had to grow up with Oprah or Mia Farrow or something.

The music? Yeah, there's the occasional clunker, but on the whole... sh*t. She's been around for twenty years for a reason. When the Club Karaoke was the hot-spot for us, yours truly regularly warbled selections from Midge's works, like La Isla Bonita and Borderline -- much to the amusement of my friends and the chagrin of the emcee.

"Um, Prego... perhaps next time you can pick something in your vocal range."

Here is a small selection of some of the rarer tracks along with Crazy for You. I had to include that one, because honestly I think that's where it began. Watching the classic Matthew Modine film Vision Quest, I caught a glimpse of Madonna briefly on screen - 'it' shifted in my underwear while I thought, "Who's that?"

Enjoy. Perhaps Clark and Tina's M.U.D. Club will gain some new membership.

Hanky Panky mp3
Crazy For You mp3
Another Suitcase in Another Hall mp3 (with Antonio Banderas)
Something to Remember mp3

My Christmas Was in June

2006-11-09T18:42:00.000-05:00

I stopped into the local Starbucks today, on the way to work. I seldom carry cash, and it's the only neighborhood coffee shop that doesn't have the $3-5 minimum purchase requirement for debit card purchases.

I'm very conscious of music, so whenever I walk into a place it's usually the first thing that registers. It sounded eerily like the kind of 19th Century European churcy music that makes caucasoids feel warm and fuzzy in December.

"Is this Christmas music?" I ask the Plain Jane standing in queue in front of me.
"I think so," she responds, motioning for me to notice all the snowmen and Crapmas knickety-knackety sh*t for sale. "It's a little early for me."

"Me too," I replied.

The line breezed through pretty quicky and I was up to bat.

"Large coffee, please."

The clerk turns around to pour the beverage and returns to the counter. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No thank you," I say as I hand over my charge card.

He runs the card through, turns around and says, "Venti Christmas blend. $1.90. Happy holidays."

The fist thing that struck me was that he actually corrected me and my 'order' with the "venti" thing, but it took me an extra few seconds to process the f*cking "Christmas" remark.

I stood perplexed, looking at the bright red paper cup, the snowflakey sleeve and my credit card in my hand, feeling like I just got a reach-around from Tiny Tim's mother. Then my eyes started darting around the place, waiting for Santa or Frosty or some other Christmas a**hole to come by to add some holiday flavour to this nightmare.

I left in a daze, trying to ascertain whether the three weeks after election day had been cancelled without my notice. I chuckled to myself as I made my way to the exit as another patron smiled at me and said, "I know."

And god chafe us, everyone.

Firmly Insert Foot in Yap...

2006-11-09T15:47:00.000-05:00

Hairshirt's Joe Wack hosts this week's and asks us to hark back to a moment in miserable existence where we might have said something we wish we hadn't - not something necessarily offensive, just something that might have made us feel plain dumb.

Heh. I remember getting set up in the sh*tter in high school, where a couple guys started in on talking about a guy I didn't know very well, but didn't much care for. I decided to chime in my less than favourable opinions on the chap and probably used a few expletives do describe him when he comes out of the stall, saying, "You guys don't know what the f*ck you're talking about."

I felt about an inch tall.

Pay Josephus a visit and 'fess up. What's the dumbest thing that was ever expelled from your voicebox and how much of a jackass did it make you seem?

The Return of the Four Play! - Volume 8

2006-11-04T19:45:00.000-05:00

There's a window of about 8 to 10 years in a guy's life where music plays a crucial role... usually. Right about half-way through high school you gravitate towards a particular personal style, and with it comes the soundtrack of your youth. You could've been one of those turtlenecked choads, writing sub-par poetry in a leather bound blank book who cut your teeth on Philip Glass; or an maybe you were an unfortunate soul with hessian hair and an affinity for the bong stylings of Sabbath or Zeppelin.

Perhaps you were one of the stinky hippie types that caught the tail end of the Grateful Dead and are still wearing tie-dye t-shirts and doing "'shrooms, dude." Almost everyone else moves on... shelves the Twisted Sister records, gets a job they hate barely enough, weds and spends the afternoon raking leaves and fixing the washing machine.

Once in a while you dust off the turntable or CD player and hark back to simpler times: before the squabbles with the spouse and dinners at the in-laws -- where you could take the fifteen bucks in your pocket and buy the new album by 38-Special rather than a 48-pack if Luvs or Huggies. You'll find that you outgrew most of your music collection, but there is always a small handful of albums that are both timeless and nostalgic. Yeah, Venom and Morbid Saint might suck ass to listen to now on the way to work, but for some reason you could still listen to Megadeth.

Me? Out of the muck that was the mid-80s there are several albums and artists that I can still listen to. Some of it still speaks to me as an adult, but nothing makes me feel like a kid more than the Descendents.

Their playful lyrics, catchy choruses & rudimentary harmonies take me back to a time when all I had to worry about was meeting girls - all I had to do was hang out with friends and all I owed was one months' rent in a sh*tty college apartment.

Drummer Bill Stevenson and vocalist Milo Aukerman are two of the most talented songwriters ever to fly under the radar. They helped us recover from sh*tty girlfriends and made us daydream about meeting the next. They included tracks full of their own farts (gotta love a band that appreciates toilet humor). Their songs melted away the miles on road-trips with as we sang along at the top of our lungs - a tradition that I've maintained with the O-Dog, who can sing all of "Clean Sheets."

Enjoy... but I ask: What takes you back?

Bikeage
Silly Girl
Cheer
Clean Sheets

Mille Grazie

2006-11-02T21:03:00.000-05:00

Recently, the O-Dog and I sent off another original O-Dog design on a tog for Jaques Roux from the brilliant but oft-dormant Hubris & Hate blog. (Understandably the homes is in law school. What's a brother gonna do if he gots to study). As a thank you, Mr. Roux was generous enough to send 4 lbs. of Hershey, PA chocolate.

Here's the O-Dog's design. Somehow I felt it went perfectly with Mr. Roux's blog and his current role as a student.

On behalf of the O-Dog, the Fletch and our family dentist, merci beaucoup, bro. And thank you for patronizing my little dude's art.

From the Annals of "My Btch Can Beat Up yo' Btch"

2006-11-01T15:57:00.000-05:00

Trick-or-treaters around here usually include neighborhood kids and an influx of kids from Buffalo's 'less affluent' neighborhoods. Not that this is a problem by any means, but along with them come older teens with no costumes, and an even bigger chafe: twenty and thirty-something women holding out bags to fill.

Usually I give a handful of treats to the little ones and then a piece of candy to the aforementioned scavengers. My neighbor is less tolerant. While doling out the goods he'll take one look at a questionable costume and inquire, "What are you supposed to be?"

"A football player," responds the costumeless teen, holding a football.

"I don't think so. Get off my porch."

In years past I've had some sh*theel in a Barry White voice at my door scrutinizing the candy and inquiring, "You ain't got no chocolate? I don't like those."

[F*ck you, a**hole] "Nope. No chocolate."

Fortunately this year's trick-or-treaters were largely legit, with a couple of twenty/thirty-something heifers partaking in the festivities... which leads us to the highlight of the evening.

Mrs. Prego was out with the kids, along with our friend Nicole and her son. After a block or so their paths with some older heavy hitters on their cell phones telling their friend, "Yeah, we're in the rich neighborhood getting some good candy."

Things got a little heated after a while as these broads got a little aggro, shoving past kids and complaining. "Mother f*cker gave me pixie sticks. Probably got anthrax in it."

Meanwhile, Mrs. P did her best to ignore them, snapping pictures of our kids. After a while the heifers took exception to that. "Is she going to take pictures at every house?"

At the next house one of them mumbles to the other, "Hold on, it's picture time."

"Excuse me. Do you have a problem with me taking pictures of my children on Halloween?"

"I wasn't talking to you!" came the response.
"No, but you were talking about me."

After that I'm sure there was the typical posturing and "bitch" lobs that accompany such encounters and they parted ways without further incident.

As Mrs. P retold me the story I ask, "Was she bigger than you?"
"Much."

"Oooh. You don't tangle a**holes with the heavy hitters. She would have kicked your ass."

The missus is from South Buffalo Irish stock, but she grew up in the 'burbs so I doubt she's ever been in a physical altercation with anyone.

"There were other people around," she replied.

"Nicole?" I said. "She's scrawny."

It reminded me of the scene in Dazed and Confused when the Mike Newhouse character decides to stand up to drunk bully Clint at the kegger. He figures he can get one swing, theorizing that the onlookers would break up the fight before Clint delivers a painful reprisal.

The onlookers, much to the disappointment of Mike Newhouse, watched idly as Clint delivered an ass-kicking before anyone intervened. I have no doubt the missus would have suffered a similar fate.

Well, fortunately for Mrs. P it never came to that. I'm willing to wager that the 250 lb. sister would have wiped the sidewalk with the missus. I'd have to teach the boys to feed mommy through a straw and I'd have to wipe her ass for her.

On the plus side, if she ever 'vents' on me or throws one of her patented tirades because I didn't help her with the house work I could always pull the plug.

Just kidding. I'm proud of you, baby. You've got cojones.

10.31.06

2006-10-31T15:58:00.000-05:00

Keeping it on the Download.

2006-10-26T15:30:00.000-05:00

Billy Bragg's Workers Playtime album has a unique distinction in my musical collection. No, it's not the greatest album ever... That honor goes to either Menudo's landmark Reaching Out or Fabio's After Dark opus.

Mr. Bragg's album released almost exactly 16 years ago (shudder) is the only musical release that I've acquired in cassette, vinyl LP, CD and digitally. I bought the cassette when the album was first released, the LP when I bought a turntable and it was one of the first CDs I bought when that now archaic technology first reared its $14.99 head on the shelves.

The last listen it got was on my 40 gigabyte iPod, where it currently resides with approximately 700 other albums or nearly 7900 songs.

This large volume is both a blessing and a curse. In one way it consolidates a portion the approximately 1200 CDs I own in a convenient device that weighs about as much as run-of-the-mill paperweight, but it also changes the way I listen to music. Rather than listen attentively to a whole album, appreciating the craftsmanship that went into it, I put it on shuffle play in the house and have frankly forgotten what the f*ck I put in it or who is singing half the songs.

Even worse is that tendency to listen to snippets of songs here and there. With that much music at one's disposal it's tough to resist listening to 28 songs in a fifteen minute drive.

Stephen V. Funk, host of this week's feels like the lone holdout on the iPod front. Homeboy is still cruising the aisles of the local record and CD scores, rather than inviting a friend over with a full 80 gigger to poach his eclectic bounty.

Heh. Half of me wants to throw on side two of the Velvet Underground & Nico album on the ol' turn table, but I know as soon as I do the Fletchmonster's peanut butter-coated paws are going to slap that stylus right across "There She Goes Again" to "the Black Angel's Death Song."

Stop by Mr. Funk's viridescent blog and try to get him to switch to the dark side. As for me and Mr. Bragg? This might be the end of the road. If they have to jam the microchip of Workers Playtime up my ass for me to enjoy it, I think I'll pass. The cassette's long gone, but I think the record's still on the shelf.

The Last(?) Temptation of Prego

2006-10-21T22:17:00.000-05:00

Every once in a while a stranger knocks on my door holding a raffle ticket or something. My stock greeting is:

"This better not be about Jesus."

Today an older gentleman knocked on the door. I was raised to respect my elders, so I gave him a cordial 'hello' instead. I was wondering what was up, though. Perhaps he was coming over to complain about Barky the Mutt, who was yelping his fool head off in my yard.

"I'm the pastor of the church on the corner. We have a chicken barbecue today and..."

(F*ck... here we go. 'Your dog is quite the nuisance. We're wondering if you could throw him in the basement for the day.' Okay... prepare respectful response.)

"...we'd like to invite you to join us. I have some free tickets for you if you'd like to come."

(Wait. Scratch that. Yes or no question.)

"Uh, sure. (What the f*ck did you just say? He's a cleric. DECLINE! DECLINE!) That sounds great." (Aaaaaaarrrghhhhh. It burns. It burns.)

The Fletchmonster and the O-Dog peek their curious heads in and say hello.

"Hi guys. So, three tickets?"
"Well, my wife will probably join us."
"Oh, sure," he says as he hands over four tickets.
"Thank you," I said as he departs.

Now part of the reason I agreed to take it is that we've scavenged a summer picnic or two. Sometimes I'd be taking the Fletch or the O-Dog out of their car seats and some friendly church broad would offer the kids a hot dog.

"Sure, what the hell - uhh... heck."

(The last time this happened, the Fletchmonster pissed in his chair so we had to take our church dogs to-go.)

The other part of the reason is that every once in a while, the missus and I try to make it through the weekend without having to cook. Friday? Fish fry at the in-laws. Today? Jesus Chicken.

When Mrs. P comes home from work I fill her in slowly.

"What do you want to do for dinner?" I offer a loaded lead-in.
"I don't care. What do you want to do?"
"Well," I reply, "we've got an invite."
"Oh, cool. Who?" She inquires.
"We'll that's the good news."

"Okay. What's the bad news?" She asks.
I bow my head solemnly, keeping a straight face: "And now we pray."

"My Aunt Jo and Uncle Rob?"
"No," I laugh heartily. "The church across the street!" I knew she'd be agreeable. She's not a church-goer either, but she doesn't look out for lightning whenever she steps near one. Besides, that's one of the four things she's in charge of: laundry, the bills, small talk and jesus. I'm in charge of good times and taking out the garbage (which she's in charge of picking up the slack).

The afternoon progressed, we digested lunch and once the bellies started grumbling again we rustled up the kids for the churchy dinner. O-Dog was a little tough to rein in, since he was having the beginnings of a meltdown. We approached the entrance and my wife starts falling behind - a maneuver that indicated she didn't want to go in first. 'F*ck that,' I thought, on to her little game. I stepped aside and said, "Go ahead. By the way, that guy there's the one that gave us the freebies. Thank him again."

Common courtesy falls under small talk.

Anyhow-lellujah, we went in, smiled politely at everyone, bought raffle tickets for the 'theme-tray' acution (stuffed the smoked salmon bucket with tickets) and sat down to feast.

Now we go out to dinner a LOT, but seldom attend these types of functions. I couldn't help but notice how friendly and welcoming everyone was. Even the crack-heady looking lady and her bag ladyish friend with the beard were real sweethearts. I looked around and saw a lot of families with their kids, elderly parents et cetera... all enjoying the churchy meal.

For a fleeting moment, just a f*cking milisecond I thought, 'This is actually nice,' and was toying with the idea of telling the missus, 'You know, maybe we ought to pop in here on Sundays.'

(Aaaarrrghh.... nooo.... beelzebub.... mmmmust.... fight... pious Flandersy... gasp feeling.)

I held my tongue, as I mulled it over. Then it happened. I wiped the grease from the Fletchmonster's cheeks, put the napkin down and started fiddling around with the table top literature.

After-school art program. This looks cool for the O-Dog. Underneath? A churchy brochure... pastor this, pastor that... 'Christ-Centered. Inclusive. Committed.'

Oh yeah. I forgot about the christ part. All of a sudden the thought of nursing the muscles after Sunday morning hockey in a pew listening to the preachings and teachings of a two-thousand year old corpse made me take a couple steps back. I thought about all those creepy-ass crucifixes on southern roadways and those weepy freaks on TV...
(Grrrrnnahhhhh... That's it. You're one of us, sinner. You're nobody's bible-bitch. Nyyyyyyaaaaawww...)

At that point, the O-Dog's meltdown finally materialized and we had to kowtow our asses backwards out of the place. Of course I was gracious and thanked the pastor heartily for the meal and neighborliness, but the Religification of Prego?

Thank you for the tasty meal from thy bounty, dude, but not this weekend...

(Flames flicker. Head spins.)

And I didn't win the salmon basket, either. Damn.

Roundtable on Bumpin' Uglies

2006-10-19T11:56:00.001-05:00

Sex is interesting, but it's not totally important. I mean it's not even as important (physically) as excretion. A man can go seventy years without a piece of ass, but he can die in a week without a bowel movement.

- Charles Bukowski

Throw in your two ~~minutes~~ cents on the topic at metaphorvoodoo for this week's .

Me? Yeah I dig it... Unfortunately in the midst of the throes we are usually interrupted by one of the little men, suddenly awake and screaming from their bedroom:

"Mommy! Mommy I want you!"

"So do I, you little bastard. Just let me keep her for 20 more seconds."

The Aftermath

2006-10-15T21:51:00.000-05:00

Three days later and there are still hundreds of thousands without power locally... We've been lucky on our block. Sh*t. I even got my cable back today. Some households will be without power until next weekend.

I ventured out today to take a peek around town. I think these pictures speak for themselves. We're hearty bastards here in Western New York, so a little bit of snow doesn't stop us. The storm wasn't too kind to the woodier residents, though. I actually felt sad taking these pictures. Multiply this scene by sh*tloads upon sh*tloads of city streets. It's going to change the 'look of the land' for sure.

Dreaming of a White Halloween

2006-10-13T14:24:00.000-05:00

Snow days f*cking rule if you're a teacher. You get a short but much needed respite from the urchins. Usually we get thrown one or two during the mid-winter jicker, but the gods of winter decided to give us a surprise reach around.

Usually the "snow day" routine is to wake up at 5 am on a snowy morning in February, turn on the news, wipe the rice krispies out of the corner of your eyes in hopes of seeing your school on the news.

Most of the time we get just a teasin':

BUFFALO SCHOOLS CLOSED - Staff Report.

That usually gets a resounding "Faaaaaaaaaaahkkkk!"

The school district actually called us last night and gave us the heads up, though. We got to sleep in here at the Prego household. That is until the in-laws called us up at 7am and the Fletchmonster woke up. Oh well... At least I get back to back "three day weekends."

Ordinarily we brush off a two foot snowfall without batting an eye, but since the trees still had most of their leaves on them branches were snappin' off all around town. In the process, cars were damaged, power lines were yanked and the morning drive was made quite treacherous.

Here's a few snapshots of my neighborhood this morning. I'll start off with a picture of an ominous Red Cross billboard that's been up for a couple weeks:

Something tells me this f*cker didn't go to work either:

A couple of barflies presumably walked home:

So much for a cozy sidewalk cafè table at Le Metro Bistro & Bakery:

This branch spanned our street, thus cutting off traffic.

I like this f*cker's appropriately emblazoned sweatshirt.

Elmwood Avenue is usually bustling at 9 am.

Here's one of the Prego family sh*twagons:

And some unfortunate soul's ride:

And here's your hero bringing home some emergency supplies from the local gas station.

Stay warm, pinches.

Making the Rice

2006-10-13T14:01:00.000-05:00

"Making the rice" is an inside joke my friends used for a while based on the lame excuse my friend Jon once used when bailing out of "good times."

"Gee, I'd really like to stick around and drink more beer with you guys, but I have to go put on the rice for Jen."

For months (years) henceforth, whenever he'd decline an invite somebody would inquire, "Making rice?" Eventually it was just shortened to, "Rice."

This week's roundtable, hosted by badass Atul takes a look at ridiculously "convenient" kitchen gadgets. When you stir the pancake batter, do you plug in the wooden spoon? Do you use an electric jar opener? When Jon 'makes the rice', does he use one of these?

Pop by "Things I've Noticed" and fess up. What kind of sh*tty gadget do you plug in to make yo'self some chitlins?

By the way, we just got dumped on by Jack Frost here in Western New York. More on that later. In the meanwhile:

Q: How do you turn your dishwasher into a snow thrower?
A: Click here.

When the Lightning Strikes...

2006-10-06T10:11:00.000-05:00

On the way to work Wednesday, I was treated to the spectacle of lightning in the dark October sky. I've heard the loud pops nailing trees nearby and thought that if the 'almighty' wanted to rub my ass out with this preferred method of disposal that sh*t would really hurt. I also began pondering my mortality (ugh...) and subsequent afterlife (or possibility thereof).

It was similar moments that actually brought religion into existence.

Caveman #1: Ngug dergag umpfor! (Dude, I'm scared of dying.)
Caveman #2: Sdgarg rergge. (Amen, nigga.)
Caveman #1: Gdsgerrer dergad gyujk areth? (What do you think happens after we die?)
Caveman #2: Oisdg fdoeg rgrhoofd morge reoyege ogoeoo ooyyopoo gosogs arog asdoyyos. (Your guess is as good as mine, but I hope it includes an endless supply of prehistoric cave 'tang.)
Caveman #1: Sdgarg rergge!

We've gotten pretty damn creative... The Vikings had Valhalla, the Hindus have saṃsāra and those Jehovah's witnesses have those happily deceased Land's End shoppers gaily cavorting lions and tigers in a lush post-mortem petting zoo. The atheists have (.) and we agnostics are left to our on devices and a coffin-load of "what ifs." We are the free-agents of theological theory. It's not like we're going to be able to pick and choose our afterlife but we're more likely to be surprised than anybody (except the atheists).

Christians might be surprised - "Faaaahk. The atheists were right! What a drag." (.)

The Muslims? "Hey! These 70 virgins are fat and hirsute!" A Hindu might come back as a Southern Baptist in his next life and have to spend a lifetime wearing a fake moustache at Hooters... And the Jehovah's witness might try to pet a leopard that decides "Man, this afterlife's for p*ssies. (CHOMP)."

Though I have no idea what to expect, here's one way it might go down for me:

(Lightning bolt)BOOOOOOOOOM! Srrrrrrrrzzzzzzzzzzztttttttttt!

(sizzle)

Prego: Ow. What the heck (eck eck eck eck....)? (timidly) Hello-lo-lo- lo?
God: Krmmmff - hee hee hee...
Prego: Wha- wha... ? Who's that? What's goin' on?
God: (chuckling) I'm sorry. I'm sorry. (chuckle...)

Prego emerges out of a 'dark tunnel' into a large pantheon.

Prego: What's so funny? Who are you?
God: I'll give you a wild guess.
Allah: Hey, can we get on with this? I've got 743 martyrs waiting.
Prego: What the f*ck's going on? If this is a jesus thing, don't waste your breath.
Jesus: Actually it is kind of a jesus thing, now that you mention it.
Vishnu: Um... according to the rule book, this guy's unaffiliated, so it is most certainly not a jesus thing.

Jesus: Yeah, but it was my dad that snuffed him out!
Prego: Snuffed who out? Me? I've been snuffed? For what?
God: Nyeh. No real reason. I was bored.
Prego: Bored? So you snuff me?
God: Every once in a while I like to go old school on someone.
Fulgora: Who are you calling old?
God: Sorry. Anyway Prego, you and I are due for a reckoning.
Prego: Oh yeah. I've been wondering about this. I guess you do exist, and so do all the other deities, apparently...
God: Yes, (ahem) well...
Ometeotl: What do you mean 'ahem'... You're not top dog around here.
Zeus: That's right!
Anubis: Shut up, Zeus...
God: Guys! GUYS! I'm in the middle of something here. Listen, Prego. You've been talking a lot of sh*t that borders on the blaspheme...

Prego: Oh, that "Why doesn't Jesus play hockey" joke? I haven't told that since 1992.
Jesus: 1998, actually. During the Olympics. During the Russia/Czech Republic game.
Prego: Oh yeah. Remember that hit that Zhitnik laid on Jagr?
Jesus: Yeah. That sh*t was sweet. We felt that up here.
Prego: Nice playoff beard, by the way. A little early, though.
Jesus: Thanks. Long time Devils fan...
Prego: No sh*t? I'd have figured you more for a Kings fan.
Jesus: What, are you f*cking kidding me?
God: PREGO! Damn it!
Prego: What? What?
God: Back to blasphemy... about that tendency to use my name in vain and all that...
Prego: You're not seriously offended by that, are you?
God: That's the third commandment.
Zeus: Come on, you know we don't all agree on that one.
Allah: Or the first one for that matter.

Elvis: I thought we only agreed to keep VI and VIII?
God: Sorry sir.
Prego: Is that who I think it is?
Jesus: Who do you think calls the shots around here?
Prego: Presley? Sh*t. This should bode well for me...
Elvis: You think so, wise guy? What about all those jokes about my weight and dying on the shitter?

Prego: You heard those, huh?
Anubis: We hear everything.
Prego: So, you guys just keep track of all we say and do...
Allah: And eat...
God: And think...
Prego: And then hold some kind of tribunal to determine my fate?
Atropos: Not quite. This is kind of out of our jurisdiction.
Allah: We determine what to do with you, yes...
Prego: Do I have a say so?
God: No.
Prego: Well, that's pretty lame. How long does that take?
Vishnu: It depends. Sometimes it takes about an hour, sometimes it can take forever. You're a tough case, since you're basically a decent person, but lack a little... shall we say... reverence...
Prego: Aw man. You know what? You guys seem like a decent lot, but I don't have time to sit around, listening to you nitpick. I'm out of here.

Elvis: Where are you going?
Prego: To get something to eat and go find me some prehistoric cave 'tang.
Elvis: Sh*t. Sounds good. I'll go with you.
Jesus: Sdgarg rergge.

God and Allah look at each other for a moment... the five of them fade off into the distance.

Sherpan Strippers? Japanese Country Singers?

2006-10-05T17:23:00.000-05:00

RW Chases Vincenzo around the world in this week's roundtable and poses the 'product of the environment' question. What would you be like if you grew up in a Muslim household in East Timor? Would you still have a penchant for poker, Hooters french fries and Lucky Lager? How much of "who we are" is shaped by where we live or where we were reared?

Get your passport stamped. We're waiting at the airport bar.

Golden Rule #2

2006-10-04T07:20:00.000-05:00

It's been a rough time to be in the classroom this month (to say the least). We used to just worry about some heathen science teacher filling our kids' heads with evolution nonsense. Nowadays we worry about some malcontent filling our kids' precious little bodies with buckshot. The second amendment has come back to bite us in the fuzzies. Our general distrust of 18th Century monarchs has forced us to arm ourselves to the teeth. The victims these days are innocents.

Nice.

Wise philosopher Bobcat Goldwait once observed that you're "more likely to shoot your wife over meatloaf" than an intruder. I also doubt very highly that the local gun-freak is amassing his arsenal in case the Grand Duke of Luxembourg decides to launch a ground assault through Montana.

Yeah, some deluded zealots might pose a threat, but it's not likely a motley crew (or crüe) of toothless and inbred NRA members would be much of a defence. Sh*t. Even the VP had a moronic mishap, busting a cap in the a-s-s of a crony.

If it were up to me, we'd take every weapon on the planet, melt them down and pour the molten metal over Los Angeles, CA and Cheektowaga, NY... but it's not up to me.

Now take a look at at this picture (provided by a co-worker who happened to teach me in seventh grade):

In this photo you have an attorney who ran for City Court Judge, a doctor in Rochester and the world's greatest educator, law abiding members of society - though the kid in front with the eyes closed may for all we know be wearing a dress, pushing around a rusty shopping cart and living behind the dumpsters at the Airport Plaza.

But that's not the point...

The point is this: a simple request for gun-toting idiots. If you are planning a murder-suicide, please do the suicide part first. Don't worry. We'll do our best to find another milk truck driver, drifter or sh*thead.

Allergies. Allergies. Allergies Here and There....

2006-09-30T13:47:00.000-05:00

Back in my day, there was one kid in every neighborhood missing a limb. Usually it was some dumb ass kid f*cking around on the train tracks that rolled through our town. There was the occasional chipped tooth kid, victim of an errant baseball and an epileptic or two hittin' the deck in gym class. Broken arms from dropping 13' from a tree branch was a frequent occurrence, as was road pizza from spilling on our bikes.

If there's one thing I don't remember about my generation are all the wussy-ass allergies that are ubiquitous these days. I know. I know... I should thank the heavens I have two healthy allergy-free kids.

Anyway, the snack list on the O-Dog's soccer team kindly requested that we pick snacks that take into consideration some of the players' allergies. I know for a fact that one of the O-Dog's buddies is allergic to chocolate. Peanuts, for some goddamned reason, are a pretty common one too. I walked up and down the aisles, ruling out granola, M & M's and anything dairy.

Bingo. Those 'fruit snacks' seem pretty harmless. A couple of ten packs of juice boxes will do, too.

I cart the O-Dog and the Fletchmonster to the soccer field and watch the O-Dog run around aimlessly for an hour... Game ends and it's time to dole out the snacks.

Little Girl: Um... Excuse me. What's in these?
Prego: Fruit, honey. They're fruit snacks.
Little Girl: But what kind? I'm allergic to strawberries.
Prego: (Jesus, kid. What the f*ckscicles?) Uh, go ask your mommy if those are okay. Here. Take a juice box, too.
Little Girl: Thank you.

Just then, a grizzled, one armed 5 year old with one eye, stictches across his cheek and chipped baby teeth approached me...

Prego: Here, kid. Take the whole f*cking bag.

He scratched his hair, pounded on his chest and grunted "Thanks."

Now that's my kind of kid.

Elvis & Priscilla

2006-09-28T10:03:00.000-05:00

I started this little tradition a few years ago, just for sh*ts and giggles. Kind of a little brainteaser for new brides and grooms. Whenever we arrive at a reception, I head over to the guest book to sign. Sometimes they have that 80 page lacy thing they spent $30-$60 only to have the first three pages filled with garden variety monikers like Aunt Tilly and Uncle Milt from Kalamazoo or Stan and Vicky Mieskiewicz.

After the second or third "Mr. & Mrs. Prego" I decided to have a little fun. I'm sure there have been friends and acquaintances puzzled, wondering:

Fred and Ethel Mertz?!

Mother Teresa and Mohandas Ghandi?

Tito Puente and Celia Cruz?

or most recently...

Bride: Who the heck are Lou Reed and Nico?
Groom: I think that's Uncle Milt's stepson and his "partner."

My favourite are those frames with the large white matte, placed prominently on a newlywed couple's mantle with the signatures of Guy LaFleur and Manon Rheaume. I added the little touch of the Montreal Canadiens logo underneath.

A savvy friend or relative might use process of elimination to figure it out, but it's not likely since not everybody gets around to signing it, and nobody's 'outed' us. Maybe next weekend -- my friend's a bit of a rock fan. So who will it be?

John Doe and Exene Cervenka?
Johnny Cash and June Carter?
Amy Ray and Emily Saliers?

The possibilities are endless, but I'm open to suggestions.

When the Tapeworm Speaketh

2006-09-28T09:41:00.000-05:00

John Sadowski holds this week's roundtable. He's wondering: what appeases your tapeworm? You know, that fatty, salty plateful of unhealthy that satisfies that craving. You could feel your blood start to flow like toothpaste with every bite.

Gyros, tacos and Ramen - Oh my!

I'll have to admit, after a late night hockey game, the steering wheel on my car starts to pull to the right as I pass Taco Hell for a 7-Layer burrito with two percent milk.
The idea of putting seven layers of anything in my breadbasket....

philoprogenitiveness n :

2006-09-26T12:21:00.000-05:00

1 love for one's own children
2 a city in China

The O-Dog and the Fletchmonster are at times like f*cking Shiites and Sunnis.

O-Dog: Fletchmonster, you're a baybeeeeee...
Fletchmonster: Waaaaauahghhgh. Stupid Odie. Stupid. Stupid.

(slap. pull. bite.)

O-Dog: AAAAAAAHHHH. He bit me!

Prego: (muttering) jesus f*cking christ. Hey, man. You started it.

This scenario, or any of a number of variations and permutations are a daily occurrence in the Prego household. Matchbox cars are chucked, bodies fly off of couches, siblings are tortured... Baghdad is a more peaceful place than my living room.

Frankly, I just try to keep them from killing each other while somehow creating that bond that will hopefully exist when I go grudgingly to my grave. Sh*t, part of the reason there is a Fletchmonster is because I didn't want the O-Dog to be by himself after the missus and I become fertilizer. I know that first-hand, since my mom passed away. Though my dad still thankfully has a pulse, he lives seven-hundred miles away -- that means that if I find myself in a hell-of-a-predicament, I at least have my brother and sister nearby... and the missus, of course.

The way the Fletchmonster and O-Dog go at it, though, you wonder if that relationship will ever exist.

39 Year Old Fletchmonster: Yeah, I have an older brother, but that f*cker and I haven't talked in 37 years, since he turned off the TV while I was watching "Scooby Doo Meets Batman & Robin."

or

Mrs. O-Dog: Honey, why don't you invite the Fletchmonster over for Thanksgiving Dinner?
43 Year-Old O-Dog: Why, so he can pull my hair, call me stupid and scribble all over my Maurice Sendak novels? F*ck that.

I know the reality. My own brother and I can't agree on lunch on any given day. We stopped whaling on each other in 1986, I believe... but I'd still step in front of a truck for the bastard (or at least try to pull him to safety.) As far as holiday dinners go, he does call me stupid... but then again, I accidentally scratched the side of his convertible once...

It's likely the O-Dog and Fletchmonster's beer-swilling arguments will be lively, but I know they won't be bad enough to involve the authorities. I have a feeling my boys will be all right.

The other day after soccer practice, O-Dog picks up his snack and drink from his coach an we take the walk back to the car. The routine is to open the O-Dog side first, let him sit in his booster, then come around to the Fletchmonster's side to buckle him into the car seat - go back to the O-Dog and help him strap himself in before I go back to the driver's seat.

As I got back in the car I turn back to see the O-Dog has opened his Rice Krispies treat, broken it in half and handed a piece to the Fletchmonster, without saying a goddamned word. It was at that point that philoprogenitiveness caused a hint of tears welling up in my eyes and my cholesterol-coated heart to warm over.

Yeah... my little f*ckers are going to be all right.

(Splash) Prego's (glug) Swimming (chhugfff) Lessons

2006-09-22T09:07:00.000-05:00

Some people take to the water like a Texan takes to the buffet line. I am not one of those people. In fact, to this day I am constantly vigilant whenever the O-Dog or Fletchmonster find themselves in the pool - lest we have one of those "Tommy Lee" incidents.

"They're fine," my wife chides. "My cousin is in the pool with them.

"I don't give a flying rat f*** if Greg Louganis is in the goddamned pool..." I reply, hawk-eye glare over a sh*tty can of Budweiser.

My wife's comfort level with the aquatic milieu is much more relaxed than mine. She's one of those to whom swimming came naturally. Years of swim team, water ballet and lifeguarding have shaped her into Aquagirl. Me? I'm flotsam.

I was doomed from the beginning. Every time my Aunt Margarita visits me from England she loves to tell the story about how she fished me out of ankle deep water in the Riverside Park pool when I was three.

I drive by that pool every once in a while on the way to the adjacent hockey rink. Half of me wants to laugh, since the wading can't be more than 2' deep at the most; the other more sensible half wants to pass legislation that wading pools should be no deeper than the distance between the base of chin and the nostrils of the average two year old.

A gigantic spatula needs to be on hand to flip any toddler unfortunate enough to find themselves face first in the water.

Eventually, I overcame the trauma and ventured out on the beautiful beaches in Punto Fijo, Venezuela. Who could resist the pebbles, seaweed and the chafe of gritty sand in the a**cheeks? Splashing around waist deep water might have assuaged the aquaphobe in me, but it did very little to turn me into a bona fide swimmer.

Fast forward to 1978, where we find our hero, an eleven-year-old Prego wading in the shallow end of the Rees Street Pool. Water-logged and curious he walks around the perimeter to the 'deep end'...

[Now that sounds like a catastrophe in the making, but had it turned out badly, this would have been the last chapter of a very short biography written by a bereft member of my family.... Or kind of like in the bio-pics on Ray Charles or Johnny Cash.

The Injun lost his idiot brother at an early age.

"And then he (sniff) jumped into the pool... (turns away from camera. wipes tear)

The trauma drove him to immerse himself in a steady diet of quaaludes, Ron Cacique and Salsa music, when Behind the Music continues.]

I don't remember quite what the conversation entailed or who it involved, but in a nutshell...

Kid: You don't know how to swim? It's easy! Just jump in the deep end and do 'this' with your arms.
Me: Daaaah... okay.

Splash. Glug.

(complete silence)

Splash. Cough....

(complete silence)

Splash.. "sntferftaaaaguuggg

(complete silence)

And In the meantime, I'll never forget the vision of a non-descript female life guard "sgogrfrffffdtttt"

(complete silence)

rapidly approaching the edge of the "prferfgtyyrtyyyyaaaa"

(complete silence)

edge of the pool, jumping in "gggooogggfff"

(complete silence)

and coming into focus just as she fishes my scrawny a** out.

"Cough-cough-cough.... WHEEEEEZE... Cough-cough-cough....

And what did I do once this angel of the gods miraculously snatched me from the Grim Reaper's soggy death grip? I did what any other little f*cker would have done in that situation.

Run like a motherf*cker.

Lifeguard (to herself): Hey! How 'bout a little thank you, you little bastard?!

I don't know if my sister Zilt witnessed the incident or not, but it might have been my dumb a** who told her "The life guard had to get me out of the pool. Please don't tell Ma & Pa."

Needless to say the first thing she says when she says when we get home is, "Prego almost drowned in the pool!"

Faaaahk

Prego: Uhhh... Yeah... (sniff-sniff) That kid Darren pushed me into the deep end... (sniff-sniff) and the lifeguard had to get me out...."
Dad: The next time you see that son-of-a-bitch, you kill that f*cking son-of-a-bitch.

Everyone is a son-of-a-bitch to the old man -- even my sons (since he has co-opted the rights of it for use as a term of endearment)

The "pushed in the pool story" stuck, and I never found the need to come clean to the parents. Sh*t. My mom's gone, and my dad could care less -- Darren never got his a** kickin', and for 28 years, I've carried the guilt of not having thanked the lifeguard. Instead, I've made it a point to thank everyone in a thankless profession.

Toll booth f*cker? Thank You.
School janitor? Thank You.
Crack dealer? Thank You.
The guy who puts the scented cake in the urinals? F*cking THANK you.
The guy who picks up elephant shit after the parade? Duuuuuude.... Thank you.
Pickin' up condoms in the parking lot of a Styx concert? Thanks....
Wiping Rosie O'Donnell's coarse pubes from the dressing room sh*tter for a living? Thanks.

As for the swimming pool? I finally got the hang of it somehow. A sh*tty gym teacher in Venezuela might have had something to do with it, and no... I didn't thank him.

(complete silence)

Shoulda, Coulda Woulda

2006-09-21T12:58:00.000-05:00

Roundtabler Suzanne of Perfect Procastination ponders the what-ifs of our miserable little lives. For instance, "What if I'd played 6-42-26-32-53-3 in last month's lotto?" or "What if I'd stayed home that night? It might have saved me from a penicillin shot.

Check it out.

LATER - Pre-teen Prego almost drowns. Stay tuned.

Fava beans with a sip of chianti

2006-09-15T18:42:00.000-05:00

Vino or vi-no? Roundtabler SK Waller likes to relax with a little bit of wine to unwind. Me too, actually. Sipping a little Bordeaux makes me feel a little less brown trash than crackin' into a six pack of Pabst. Stop by and for a glass of chardonnay at the Incurable Insomniac's wine cellar.

Waskawy Wabbit Wasted.

2006-09-13T11:03:00.000-05:00

I got an email from Rob of fuquad!, asking quite simply "I gotta know. Did the rabbit die or what?"

Like an idiot, I spent fifteen minutes going back over a month's worth of blog entries for any reference to a dead rabbit. No dice. Finally, I had to admit my ignorance and replied,"Dude, what f*cking rabbit?"

He clarified, thankfully, that he was referring to the pregnancy test Mrs. (not) Prego took last month. I had to admit that I had never heard that expression. Or have I?

From Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion":
Pulled into town in a police car
Your daddy said I took you just a little too far.
Tellin' other things, but your girlfriend lied
Can't catch me cause the rabbit done died.

I must have heard that song a thousand and a half times and never thought to figure out what the hell Spit-Lips Tyler was bellowing about. It seems that back in the day they figured out that if you inject a rabbit with broad piss, "it dies if the woman's pregnant." Actually a more scientific explanation is that the human chorionic gonadotropin hormone (present in pregnant broad piss) causes 'changes' in the ovaries of a female rabbit. They had to kill the rabbits anyway to see the results.

It's still the hCG hormone that is used to determine results in modern pregnancy tests. Rabbits have since been spared, thank god. I can only imagine the look in a rabbit's eye as some quack comes at it with a syringe-full of Mrs. P's house-fraü whizz. "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo...!"

Now let's see what happens when we inject a tapir with the contents of a hemorrhoidal man's enema bag?

Sounds of Silence

2006-09-12T10:56:00.000-05:00

Nothing made me feel more ghetto last week than driving the 1995 Jeep Sh*twagon around town sans muffler.

I was laying in bed and was startled by the obscene sound of scraping metal on ashphalt and that of un-muffled exhaust.

"Damn," I thought to myself. "Time for that bastard to head to the muffler shop."

Minutes later I hear the key opening the front door and my wife sheepishly peeking her head into the bedroom.

Stifling her laughter, she says "I just killed your muffler!"

"That was you?! Faaaaahk." We both chuckle over the situation.

Ordinarily, I'd have taken the thing to Midas or Cole for repairs, but since I'm selling it I didn't want to shell out the $175 minimum those bastards would charge. I had to figure a way to cheap out.

The entire week, I drove that thing to work: Duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah...

I felt as if everyone in the neighborhood took a peek my way in disdain.

Even my brother caught wind of it.

Bro: So what's up with your car?
Me: The muffler. Why?
Bro: One of your old students came in to my classroom saying, "Mr. G, your brother's car sounds like sh*t. I can hear him coming from two blocks away."
Me: Faaaaahk.

Fortunately, my father-in-law is a handy individual with an insatiable desire to acquire every tool known to mankind. He kindly asked me to bring the car over on Saturday morning.

En route, the O-Dog wanted me to tell me a little story.

"Daddy, did you ever (duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah) and then (duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah) with the girl who (duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah)"

"What, buddy?"

"The girl who (duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah) with (duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah)."

"I'm sorry. Which girl?"

"Ah forget it!"

When I finally arrived at the in-laws, ears still ringing, I found that my father-in-law already had the ramps up. This guy loves a project like a spider likes a fly.

$9 in clamps later, the muffler was re-attached and the only sounds in the car were of my two little bastards singing the "Baby, baby - Stick Your Head in Gravy" song to each other in between wails and swinging fists on the way home. In some ways, I missed the Duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah-duggah...

On the way back to work this week, though, I missed it like a prom queen misses a pimple.

Thanks for pimpin' my ride, Mr. F. For less than ten bucks, too.

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

2006-09-06T21:46:00.000-05:00

Last month, blogger Carmi Levy wrote an article about homelessness that struck a chord. Carmi is a Canadian journalist & 'tech-y' guy and all-around gentleman... basically the anti-thesis of me. I'm far from Canadian. Anyway, he posits that we should all look out for the homeless and destitute, since any of us could wind up saturated in our own piss, talking to buildings and extending our nicotine-stained hand out to passers by to eke out a living.

In response to his post, I wrote:

...Yeah. We're all a lawsuit/bender/divorce away from being indigent or destitute, but I think most of us have the capacity, resourcefulness and will to avoid such a fate...

Sure, it could be any of us, but I don't find myself to be all that charitible to neighborhood cadgers anymore. This might be due to the fact that I live in an area with a high panhandler to regular person ratio.

Here's a historical glimpse of such characters:

A fifty-some year old guy who for a span of three or four years would approach people in front of a convenience store, asking for money "out of desperation." How long can one be 'desperate'? I think after three or four days it ceases to be desperation and becomes a flat-out nuisance.

A thirty year-old bearded hippie who spent a couple of summers rustling up some change to catch a bus - at the same stop, for hours on end.

The short pigeon toed dude with the fake "shakes" and the plaintive f*cking expression on his face. He'd waddle back and forth in front of the Blockbuster Video store looking like he was about to cry. This was his post for a couple of years.

The grizzled 'Vietnam Vet' guy who'd sarcastically respond "God Bless America," whenever you'd pat the pockets and shake your head as you walked by.

Then there's the 'ran out of gas' routine... That's a winner. F*ck you. Especially when I'm paying 3.02 a gallon to keep my rusty piece of sh*t on the road...

Yeah, it's enough to make anybody calloused. In a way, though, Carmi's right. It could be any of us. A few months ago I started running into an old acquaintance of mine named John. I hadn't seen this guy in about eight or nine years. He used to be normal. At least normal enough to bag one of my old female friends back in the day. Now he starts appearing out of the blue and chats me up for ten painful minutes with some kind of incoherent babble. I don't like to talk to regular people for half as long. As f*cked up as he sounded, he starts rattling off stuff about people we knew and we parted off with a 'nice to see you.'

A couple weeks later I run into him again, looking a little messy. Now I'm thinking, "Man, what kind of f*cking drugs did this guy start taking?" as he goes on and on about the same sh*t as our last encounter. I kind of tugged at my collar and herded the family along and gave him the 'nice to see you, again.'

One or two days go by and here he comes again, looking far more deteriorated and disheveled. He introduces me to some teenage kid he refers to as his friend. As I try to make my getaway with my dog, mother-f*cker hits me up for a "couple of bucks to get some drinks with the ladies."

I gave him the "bunt sign" (patting pockets to indicate lack of monetary content) and rushed off, as he shouted a couple of "Aw... Come on's."

Did I feel like an a**hole for not helping him out? Maybe just a little. I kept thinking that if I really wanted to help him out, I'd give him a ride to the local Bry Lin Treatment Center next time i saw him, but giving out a couple of quarters everytime I see him or any of those other 'destitute' f*ckers on the street is bull sh*t.

I take care of my more resourceful vagrants by leaving out my empty returnable bottles and cans on garbage day. The ill feeling I got standing behind a fat housewife or houseband with 73 empty diet pop cans at the supermarket just wasn't worth the $1.55 I'd garner on an average load. I also 'give at the office' with the United Way and any other legit charity I deem worthy.

I pose this question. At what point should I toss out a quarter? Am I just a cheap bastard or does anybody else get annoyed in this situations. Does it, in fact, make me a heartless a**hole?
As much as I hate to say it... John, next time I see yo' ass, I'm probably crossing the street. You need a little more help than I'd be able to give with $0.73. I hope you find it.

The End of Summer

2006-09-05T06:25:00.000-05:00

Labor day reminds me that I actually have to labor. As a teacher, you get spoiled by a couple months off... Enough so that when hordes of kids show up at the school you realize, "Oh yeah. So that's what I do for a living.

It's not bad, really -- especially if you actually like kids (which I do). Besides, if and when I get an administrative position soon, I'll have to get used to working year round.

Anyway, all good things come to an end. In my case, some leisure. In Steve Irwin's case a beautiful life. In Andre Agassi's case, a great career.

Yes, the world is a little poorer without the Crocodile Hunter. We've all had our attempts at an Aussie accented "It's teeth are razor sharp." Some of us dumber ones have probably even attempted to get a closer peek at an alligator or other such creature with comic and painful results... but all of us should appreciate the love the man had for animals, his sense of humor and enthusiasm for wild things. Go out and pour out a Foster's Lager on the sidewalk to pay props to our dead homie.

Andre? I wasn't always the biggest fan. You started off your career sporting the unsightliest of bitch-flags. During the apex of your career, you were usually second fiddle to Sampras... and your over-emotive victory celebrations made you look like a soap opera starlet winning an Emmy™ (especially your first Wimbledon title), but sh*t, bro... you went out with class. And you got to bag Brooke Shieds and Steffi Graf. More than that, you made tennis a bit cooler for the kiddies. I'm from the McEnroe school myself, but if I was coming of age about 6 or seven years later, you might have made me pick up a racket, too.

The end of something always marks the beginning of something else... autumn, new tennis stars like Federer or Nadal... and there's always the Kratt brothers.

The end of something usually marks the start of something new. Hopefully it's also something good.

Saturday Night Four Play! - Volume 7

2006-09-02T21:13:00.000-05:00

Well... It looks like the missuz ain't in a family way. Thanks for those crossing fingers and well-wishin', but the menses be flowin'. She's out tying one on with her friend tonight, since I guess there's no fetus to damage.

We're not really disappointed or anything. We're in the 'if it happens, it happens' mind frame. The O-Dog and the Fletchmonster keep us happy, laughing and on our toes. Since my wife's of Irish descent, though, she's got that baby-making apparatus that's supposed to churn one out every 11 months. Me? I'm Hispanic. I'm aiming to embody that '15 in the car' joke white people like to tell.

Because I'm not likely to get any tail tonight, there's no sense in slapping the old smoothies on the turntable this evening. Tonight's featured artists cook things up in an entirely different fashion:

The Delta 72
Add 3 cups frenetic energy
1 steaming organ
1 raw throat
1 fifth of Wild Turkey
1 tbsp R&B
2 tbsp Rock & Roll

Throw in the Cuisinart and pulse like a m*ther-f*cker.

Yields 1 or 2 speeding tickets.

(or a couple broken bed springs)

Enjoy.

I Feel Fine
Rich Girls Like to Steal
Get Down
Mainline Pt. 2

Prego and the Feminine Mystique

2006-08-31T13:25:00.000-05:00

There was one of the few episodes of Northern Exposure I watched in which Dr. Joel
Fleischman asked the sage-like Chris Stevens "What do women want?"

His response: "They want the same things we do only in prettier colours."

I guess that's evident in this Home Depot colour swatch from Disney. It seems that our little princesses are indoctrinated early on in their affinity for footwear. This is shortly before they are trained in the art of holding one's blouse whilst bending over to pick up your belongings -- a completely necessary maneuver, since if you're 18 or 180, we will attempt to sneak a peak at yo' bid'ness. (Keep them legs crossed, too.)

Apparently our affinity for great breasts stems from biology, where somewhere in the nether-regions of our minds a little voice says, "Jesus. Those mammoth mammaries could conceivably feed 20 children until adulthood."

Physical attributes aside, there are inherent differences between the genders that are inexplicable by non-scientific types such as myself. A few years ago, for example, a friend's toddler waddles into the kitchen towards her uncle. She spots him, throws her arms up in the air and says, "Hold me."

My friend turns to me and says, "Boy, they start that sh*t early, don't they?"

Apparently, they do. It's some kind of protection thing, especially after coitus, but sh*t, baby. I've got to get up for work in the morning.

There are many other instances where the hes and shes don't see eye to eye. A few years back, when my wife and I first moved in together before we got married, we got back from the grocery store. Keep in mind that I'd never lived with a woman besides my mother and sisters. When I unpacked the groceries, I looked at the cold cuts and decided to make myself a sandwich. That's just how we roll. My wise friend Jay once said, "That's how you know you're a guy. When you like stuff like snakes... and helicopters... and sandwiches."

It seems women like sandwiches, too. As I sit next to the "Someday-to-be-Mrs. P" and take a bite, my eardrum is pierced with a shrill, "You didn't make me one?!" followed by a diatribe of indignance that came from left field.

"Uh... I figured if you were hungry you'd have come into the kitchen instead of plopping down to watch TV." My pragmatic response fell on deaf ears as her demeanor changed from zero to livid in about 38 seconds.

For monts thereafter, whenever she started what I construed as an irrational argument (98% of them), I'd simply say "Sandwich. Sandwich." I guess that was just a feeble effort to thwart the inevitable "venting" that the fairer sex needs once in a while. There's no stopping it, gents. It's like trying to shield yourself from a tsunami with a Titleist™ golf umbrella.

They can blame it on all the syndromes they want (they f*cking corner the market on them), but in their wake they leave a weak man quivering or an even weaker man swinging at them.

The inexplicables abound, yet even the strangest idiosyncrasies are explained, usually. On a night out, for example, your wife or girlfriend might decide to go to the pisser at the bar, place her purse in front of you and say, "Watch this for me, would you?" I'm not much of a conspiracist, but I equated it with a little territoriality. The female animal, marking her territory with a $200 Burberry (further proof of my lack of understanding), ensuring that all the other female predators in the bar don't pounce on her man-bone.

Hot Female: Ooooh. Unattended stud.
Hot Female #2: Ta-ken. Look. There's a Burberry in front of him.
Hot Female: F*ck it. I'm moving in for the kill.

I maintained this theory for a while until I asked a friend's girlfriend about the 'purse-leaving' stratagem.

"So nobody steals it."

I'm convinced she was simply being a good soldier, just giving name, rank and serial number. Maybe under duress, if I wielded a hefty telephone book, she might have cracked.

"Yes, Prego. You're riiiiiiight! You're riiiiiiight. We're staking our claim!"

Then there's the sh*t I just have no explanation for. No man does.

As I walked in downtown Chicago with a female friend, my eyes were drawn to some off-the-chart hotitude. "Whew. I like."

My female friend replies, "Pregoooo. She's wearing nude pantyhose." As if this somehow should diminish my desire to pounce on some kibbles.

What the f*ck does nude pantyhose have to do with anything?

As with any crazy male/female conundrum, I usually get a second opinion from a female such as my sister Zilt (as crazy a specimen, if there ever was one).

Prego: Zilt, what's the deal with nude pantyhose?
Zilt: (aghast) Oh my god. Chick-a-to-wah gah!*

* (Cheektowaga is a Buffalo suburb, known for it's pink flamingoes on the front lawns, crustily hairsprayed coiffs and general détritus blanc cheekiness)

So nude pantyhose is apparently tantamount to 70s bush on a string bikini? I was left bewildered with that one, particularly knowing that it's a removable garment. Perhaps they're just fuzzy dice in a t-top Camaro or a more tasteful vehicle. Either way it was the tip of the iceberg of what I don't know about women.

We don't always have such differences of opinions, the lasses and I. Yesterday I saw two cute girls talking at the supermarket -- one of them slightly more visually striking than the other. As I grabbed my Sapporo and made my way back I saw that they were walking pretty damn close to each other. "Man... They're lesbians!" I quickly decided to walk down their same aisle in hopes they decide to show some affection. Sure enough, right in front of the cereal they decide to have a tender embrace. "Woo-hoo!"

Lame-ass comic Paul Reiser quipped on lame-ass show "Mad About You" on men and our voyeurism where lesbians are concerned:
"They're girls, it's fun and I agree with both of them."

Unfortunately our society isn't as forgiving when the fellas want to get huggy. As far as tolerance towards male homosexuality, we're still in the Mesozoic Age. It's not like it'd yield the same reaction from me as the ladies did. I won't go tying any gay males to a lamp post to beat them senseless. It'd be more like, "Hey guys. One of you have change for a twenty?"

But girls? I get it. I really do. I got it when I saw the lady with Cerebral Palsy making out with the business lady while holding on to the walker. I got it when the two punk rock chicks made out with each other at the Buzzcocks concert. See? Some things I do get.

The sandwich? Nude pantyhose? Purse dropping? "Hold me?" I'm still working on my baccalaureate. Sh*t. Sometimes I still feel like I'm in third grade.

Mrs. P asked me to go buy her a pregnancy test today. Where the f*ck do they keep those, anyway? Near the tampoons, since it's a cooch thing? In the baby section, since that's what it's going to result in? Near the toilet paper, since it involves piss? Well, I finally found it near the festering 'chocha' ointment, for some reason.

Hopefully it's positive. Hopefully it's a girl. Maybe a daughter can help me figure all that crap out. I doubt it, though. She'll probably just drive me to utter a phrase all fathers dread:

"You're not leaving the house like that. You look like a hooker."

Or if I'm lucky, she's a lesbian.

Siskel and Roper Gave it "the Finger"

2006-08-31T08:08:00.000-05:00

My friend Skip and I were swilling a couple of wobbly pops Tuesday night when some goofy comedy came on. It was some POS called Without a Paddle and, despite increasing crapitude as the film progressed, we watched the whole thing. There was enough comic genius thrown in to warrant one sitting, but that's about it.

About halfway through the 'film', Skip laments, "They don't make movies like they used to... Like Easy Money..."

I begged to differ. I said, "Yeah they do, Skip. It's just not about us anymore. In a few years all the little f*ckers you see around us are going to say, 'They don't make movies like American Pie anymore.'"

Every once in a while you have to sit down, crack open the cranium, plop the grey matter down on the mantel and sit down for some crappy Hollywood viewin'. There's a goddamned crapload of it, that's for sure. I usually reach for the comedies, since they lend themselves to mindlessness.

Joe Wack of Hairshirt fame hosts this week's . In an ode to Cliffhanger, the Sly Stallone vehicle that he considers the "Sh*ttiest Film of All Time," he invites you to pay homage to what you consider the worst movie ever - so crappy that you watch it over and over again and mire in its grandiose crapulence.

So what is it? Beaches? Red Dawn? Youngblood? Boys on the Side? It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World? Hangar 18? My brother still breathes fire about that one.

Get your tickets, walk over to the snack bar and make your way up the sticky aisle of Hairshirt Cineplex. Boo and hiss to your heart's content.

Saturday Sunday Night Four-Play! - Volume 6

2006-08-27T23:37:00.000-05:00

It's a nice feeling to have survived another wedding. Actually, they'd be a little more fun if the music didn't suck so much ass. It rained men, we were family and we had friends in low places, but I felt for the poor souls going home with whiskey d*ck and nothing to put a little sizzle on the home fires.

That's where this week's featured Four Play! artist would have come in handy. Froggy lounge lizard Serge Gainsbourg would be an inspired addition to an otherwise vapid wedding DJ repertoire. His quirky and jazzy pop tunes would spice up the cocktail hours before the coup de grace "Je T'aime Moi Non Plus" (his steamy duet with 60's tart Jane Birkin) sends the guests home ready to tear off a piece off of post-wedding ass.

Sh*t... it was banned on a handful of European airwaves for a reason. Erections and creamed panties might have had something to do with it.

Mr. Gainsbourg died in 1991, but his Euro-trash legacy lives. Homme-boy is infamous for appearing pickled on a French TV show with a pre-druggy Whitney Houston and telling her that he "wanted to f*ck her." I might have tried the same line on the missus, but she was more drunk than I. Damn...

Anyhow, for those of you familiar with Monsieur Gainsbourg, here's a selection that might make you go blow the dust off of your CDs. New to Serge? Sacre bleu!

Pour votre plaisir.

Wake Me At Five
Initials B.B.
Sous Le Soleil Exactement
Je T'aime... Mon Non Plus

"Prego Will Be Out of the Office Until...

2006-08-26T14:49:00.000-05:00

I' ve been carted off to a "friends-in-law" wedding in Lake Plaid, NY. It's actually a good time so far. I'm on my way to a night of watered-down Manhattans and shitty over-cooked ziti noodles. I just finished the jesus part of the day... the only other thing that could chafe me today is the obnoxious wedding DJ. If I hear the "Electric Slide" tonight, I'm definitely going to have to "crop dust" the dance floor. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it's passing gas, then walking around spreading the aroma.

Sunday Afternoon Four-Play tomorrow, so keep the cobbles and panty-hamsters on ice. In the meantime, pop by Sereena's for this week's roundtable - this week's topic, the 'perfect song'. Something I'm not likely to hear tonight at the reception.

Alright, pinches... I'm off to smile politely.

Saturday Night Sunday Morning Four Play! - Volume 5

2006-08-20T11:08:00.000-05:00

If you have a bottle of Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais around, hide it tonight unless you want to refer to your next-born child as the 'whoops' baby.

Yeah... Chris Isaak's got that effect. At least I always thought so. If I were single and entertaining a lady, he'd be the first CD I reach for. Barry White might work if I were entertaining a hooker and Kenny G would work on the pimply banker chick your friend set you up with, but for sheer smoothness, you can't beat Mr. Isaak.

He's the kind of artist that deserves to be huge but flies under the radar, which adds to his appeal. I'd hate to be as sick of one of his gems as I am about "You're Beautiful" or that insipid "Bad Day" song (not that I cared for either of those klunkers to begin with).

You might remember him from such videos as the one with Chris and the hot chick romping topless at the beach with sand all over her b-cup titties. He's got that soaring vocal range that sends the cat out of the room when you try to sing along... so don't, but...

Enjoy.

Pretty Girls Don't Cry
Two Hearts
Don't Get So Down on Yourself
Can't Do a Thing to Stop Me

Dear Prego (Or Why I Don't Write Advice Columns)

2006-08-17T21:59:00.000-05:00

DEAR ~~ABBY~~ Prego:

My mother says I'm tearing our family apart. On Mother's Day, my 8-year-old daughter teased her 9-year-old cousin, asking who'd like her last bite of dessert. When he said he wanted it, she said, "Just kidding!" My nephew went running into the house wailing like he'd been hit.

I was in the middle of telling my daughter what she did was wrong and she should apologize, when I heard my brother, "Harry," ask my nephew why he was crying. My nephew said my daughter had teased him over the dessert, and Harry said, "Well, she's a little bitch!" I was horrified. My daughter and sister-in-law heard it, too.

When I went inside to talk to Harry, he told me he didn't mean it that way and that he could say anything in his house that he wants. My daughter and I left, and I haven't talked to him since.

He has apologized to my daughter with numerous justifications for what he said, but he hasn't apologized to me for what he called my daughter and the way he talked to me. We have had two family birthdays since then (including another at my brother's), and my daughter and I haven't attended either one. My mother is taking Harry's side, saying I'm too sensitive and the word isn't that bad. Am I wrong to think that calling an 8-year-old a "bitch" is horrible, degrading and uncalled for? -- SISTER OF A TRASH MOUTH

DEAR SISTER: Probably not. But your brother has already apologized to the "injured" party for what he said, and he does not owe you one. I'm voting with your mother. You have already punished yourself and your daughter enough by missing out on the family birthday parties. Enough, already!

Dear Sis':
Man, can you hold a f*cking grudge. No wonder your daughter's a little sh*theel. My sister used to pull that jive-ass move... only she'd lick the last piece of cake, instead of saying, "Just kidding." On one occasion I said, "F*ck it. What's a little saliva among siblings," and wrestled the last goddamned Ho Ho ® from her chocolate-coated meathooks. It was a little soggy, but it hit the spot.

Now, onto your bid'ness. Rather than purse your lips and trot off to the trenches, fight fire with fire. Tell my nigga "Harry," he's right - she's a bitch. You might want to add that he's raising a mealy-mouthed p*ssy in the process. He seems to have cobbles himself, putting you in your place in his crib, but what's with putting up with the sobbing 9 year old? Time to tape the little wuss to the garage door and fire hockey pucks at him.

On the plus-side, I'm sure your husband appreciates sitting out the chafing family functions, but you seem like such a (here's a word that might 'horrify' you) cooze, you probably have him scrubbing your menstrual panties instead... a job "Harry's" kid will invariably land when he ties the knot.

Prego

Donny B. of Everything in Moderation hosts this week's on the topic of advice columnists. Does having a bad day result in bad advice? What if they start losing their patience, like the guy at the amusement park who's been asked a thousand times where the sh*tter is? Stop by for a good read.

Also, apologies to Steven V. Funk for shirking my roundtablin' duties last week.

Saturday Night Four Play! - Volume 4

2006-08-12T15:39:00.000-05:00

Though I have no compunction in digitally siphoning music, (I have over 1,200 store bought CDs and a plethora of vinyl) I do find a bit of a moral dilemma if the musician/band are still active or have a pulse... Therefore, this week's featured artist is an inactive one with no pulse.

Freshly deceased Arthur Lee of Love referred to himself as the 'first black hippie', but don't hold that against him. (The fact that he thought of himself as a hippie, not the fact that he was black... I don't suppose anybody's dumb enough to hold blackness against anyone)/ Anyhow, I thought I'd give a nod his way. After having Forever Changes on the CD changer for a month or so, my wife finally asked "Who is this?" That usually means she likes it, otherwise she'd ask "What the #%** is this?" instead.

Not that a ringing endorsement from Mrs. P. warrants the glare of the Four Play! spotlight, but what the heck. It should account for something, given her layman's ear for tuneage.

Pleasant and palatable psychedelia with lofty vocals.... Ahhh. I can smell the incense burnin'.

Here, then, are four tracks from Love and the late-great Arthur Lee.

Enjoy

Alone Again Or
Andmoreagain
Maybe the People Would Be the Times or Between Clark and Hilldale
Little Red Book