Boinggggggg...

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Enough to Make Deney Terrio Cringe

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?

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:

1. She flips out for something I deem insignificant and begins a tirarde.
   
2. I calmly tell her I don't want to talk about it.
3. This gets her angrier and more irrational.
4. I start twirling my finger around my right ear in the Internationally recognized "Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs" sign, leaving the room.
   
5. Mrs. P goes off the deep end and follows me from room to room.
6. I begin to seethe a bit and a couple "Will you shut-the-f*ck-up?" begin to emerge.
7. Mrs. P storms off to cry it out.
8. I go walk the dog or something.
9. One of us apologizes, we may or may not have "make-up" sex... and
   
10. 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...

Sores for Sight Eyes

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.

Dirty Laundry

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.

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...

Enter the "Dra-Goon"

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?

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.

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

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.

Golden Rule #2

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....

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.

No Jacket or Modesty Required

It's hard for me to figure out hot to articulate this gripe without sounding like a fussbudget or one of those fellas on those fashion shows: "Ugh... White shoes after Labour Day with a pin stripe halter top? Girl, go back to Idaho." The other risk is that that I might sound like an geriatric fart: "Why in my day, seeing a girl's ankles would send my flagpole a-quiverin.'"

Basically, modesty, class and public decorum has gotten the old "Heave-ho, 'ho" treatment and in it's wake we find a skankified and casual wardrobe that leaves us either cringing or salivating.

On the whole, we're all right. Same ol' business suits, same old WalMart turtlenecks and polyester slacks. Where we're lacking, though are in the public arena. When we were kids flying was a big deal. Everytime we had to travel my mom put on a nice skirt and matching jacket and we kids were jammed into slacks, oxfords and clip-on ties. It's a habit that I haven't abandoned (well, I finally figured out how to make the rabbit go around the tree and through the hole, so the clip-on's been sh*tcanned), but I find myself in a sad minority as everybody else is decked out in shorts, those goofy f*cking track suits that the ladies are wearing and even pyjamas.


Yes, pyjamas.

In fact, I recently stopped by a neighbourhood drugstore to get a pair of sweatpants to wear for the gym. I couldn't find any, but in their place I did see a whole pile of PJ bottoms. They seem to be all the rage.... Some girls have even managed to wear them to school, as their mothers (wearing either a similar pair, or those aforementioned sh*tty looking track suits) drop them off.

As if those moms aren't fashion-less role model, you can make matters worse by filling up Tiffany's toybox with those little Bratz trollops. That's nice. Give them a little leg up to hussy-dom so when they get to college they can wear those tasty sweatpants that sit right at the edge of the pube-line in the front while a nice thong peeks out the rear. That might bring your attention to the hot and "original" tattoo they just got.

It's not just the ladies, either, though in place of thongs are a pair of boxers - while pants that are obviously a few waist sizes too large sit precariously, ready to drop to the floor. It's nice that all the accomplishments of the prison inmate who's had to remove his belt can be honored by so many.

I don't know. Maybe it's just nitpicking and I'm just a being a blowhard. I've got to go out to dinner with the wife tonight anyway.

Prego Woman? We're late! Where's my tank-top? You know the one with the palm trees in the front and the chili stains I got at the last church lawn fete

Wife It's on the laundry pile, with the pyjama bottoms
Prego You didn't wash it with your thongs, did you? You know my 'no tops with bottoms' rule.
Wife Groan.

Tune in Tokyo... In the name of the father, and of the son...

There are several universal truths in music. The first, of course is that Van Halen sans David Lee Roth is just not Van Halen The second is that Paul McCartney, as talented a songwriter as he might be, was the biggest pussy in the Beatles. I have come to add a third one that just might usurp the first two:

Religious music sucks ass.

(Speaking of pussies, I just watched that latest Star Wars film. I couldn't wait for Anakin Skywalker to turn into Darth Vader.... Ooops. I'm going off on one of those classic fuquad-esque tangents. Back to the topic.)

Where was I? Oh yeah. Religious music. It sucks... With the exception of Handel's Messiah and Blake's Jerusalem, it SUCKS. Okay, so I'm risking 850 jiggawatts of lightning-bolt up my rusty sheriff's badge talkin' religification on the lord's (sic) day and all, but I just spent a week in the goddamned South, and I've about had my fill of Jebus (not that I was that religified to begin with. By the way, while I was down there, I actually heard a woman call her child by name: "Messiah." I admit, I culled my firstborn's name from mythology, but "Messiah" is just a bit creepy to me.)

I'm not going to antagonize christians (sic), because those freaks have very little sense of humor about their sh*t... but do me a favor. If you're going to write a song to beat the Jesus drum, at least write a good f*cking song.

On the way down to 'Dixie' to visit my old man, the FM transmitter for my iPod went on the fritz. It lasted for the first leg of the trip, but dissed us on the most painful 400 miles. You know the ones... with the freaky crosses on the hillsides. Ever since the film "Children of the Corn", Jesus radio gives me the willies. Ironically, I've come to the conclusion that religion is not for children. It's just too darn violent and spooky. One of these lunatics kept enunciating the word "flesh" for some reason. Then my wife kept egging me on by saying sh*t to my kids like, "Today is the day the saviour has risen."

"Stop that!"

"Lamb of god..."

"AAAAAAAAuuuuughhhhhhhh" (screeeeech... swerve....) "Come on! I'm driving!!!"

Along with those f*cked up preacher-men came an onslaught of vapid religious tunes that gave me one of those 'ice cream headaches' and caused me to tap anxiously on the seek button on the radio. I don't know if it's a chicken or egg thing, or a horse before the cart thing, but I can't understand why worship songs are just so laaaame? Is it because I'm not down with g-o-d, or is it because these 'songwriters' are afraid if they write anything saucy they'll spend eternity licking the underwear lint from Satan's red-hot ass crack?


Among the gems I was slapped on the ass with:

"blaahh... blahhhh... blahh... Jesus is the sweetest name...." (Actually "Shaneequah" is the sweetest name. Homegirl got an ass that could lead a gift horse to water...)

Another of my faves was some backwoods sh*theel lamenting how bad god feels, and that you would, too "if noone believed in youuuuu...." When I think of all the other things we do that bums the deities out, I would put that song about eighth on the list of sh*t that makes god cringe.

And to make matters worse, 90% of my other options consisted of those brutal, nasal abominations they call country these days. It's like having to choose between the runs and the bends. It got to the point that when I finally came across something somewhat palatable, I turned to my wife and said, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually glad to hear this crappy Phil Collins song."

Up here in the North, radio only gets jesufied on Sunday mornings, and country is thankfully relegated to one station to the extreme right of the dial (imagine that). It's not like radio's much better here anyway, seeing that it is instead littered with the phat bass of the urban ilk, the stale bongwater stylings of classic rockers or disposable pop pap. Seven days a week of gospel, though is just too much for this heathen to handle.

So in closing, I'd just like to say this. If you're going to pen a religious ditty, fire up a fatty, take a couple swigs of Glenfiddich, tear a piece of ass first... then (making sure you have about three days' growth of facial hair) write that sh*t at 2:45 in the morning. If you're not going to play by my rules, at least have the decency to keep it off my airwaves. Take a page from that stinky hippy textbook. Trade tapes with each other after Sunday mass.

"Dude, I just recorded 'the King of Glory' on my Garageband."
"Cool. I'll trade you for my ukulele rendition of 'Are You Washed in his Blood' with a phat Jeremy Camp beat."
"Sweet."

'Ho - Re - Mi...

Dear Kim Cattrall,

I just wanted to drop a line to get something off of my chest. I have followed your career since Porky's. You really created cinematic history with your portrayal of Ms. Honeywell (Lassie), and your memorable 'howling' love scene is still the talk of the town in Boise, Idaho and Toledo, Ohio.

You followed that stellar role as lame-ass Steve Guttenburg's love interest in the the low-brow cult hit Police Academy. I give you credit, though for jumping ship before the onslaught of substandard sequels. Instead, you opted to give Timothy Hutton's Turk 182 character a reason to salivate.

Yes, you were riding a creative high when you made me daydream about a little sweet and sour action, starring you and that Asian looking fox in Big Trouble in Little China. Things started taking a turn south though, watching you roll around with über-p*ssy Andrew McCarthy in Mannequin. What followed was a series of duds and supporting roles until your current incarnation as the skankiest of the skanks in Skanks and the City.

I realize car payments need to be made and groceries need to be bought. Regardless, you've relegated yourself from hot little biscuit to dried-up skeezer status. Furthermore, you have continuously polluted the cable airwaves with re-runs, featuring your half-naked 48 year-old ass crawling in and out of every mattress in New York. Sure, growing old's a bitch, particularly so for the ladies and even more so for the ladies in Hollywood -- but there are other more dignified ways to re-invent yourself. I don't want to sound judgmental, but you could've found roles for yourself as somebody's mother.... I know that's humbling, but Susan Sarandon seems to have adjusted well - and it's no more humbling than discussing the tawdry details of lascivious behavior with other actresses willing to sell themselves short.

In closing, I'd just like to say that I no longer wish to throw down with you. I'd much rather inject myself with STDs directly and save you the trouble.

Good luck with your future endeavors. I hear they might make a biopic about the oldest hooker in Vegas. Call your agent to get you a screen test before Karen Black or Pia Zadora beat you out.

Sincerely,
Prego

Erin, go brag about how much you can drink.

Ah... St. Patrick's day. Thank goodness it only comes once a year. In the spirit of the 'holy' day, I thought I'd share with you what I'd like to celebrate about Irish culture. Surprisingly, it wasn't all too difficult to come up with ten things, (unlike Swiss culture, which has a steep down-curve after choclolate, that Swiss Miss, those nifty knives and neutrality).

What I Love About the Irish
1. My wife & in-laws - I've got to put that one first, lest I unleash my wife's Irish temper once she reads this. I mean it honey. You is tops, and so's yo clan. Even the half-Polish ones.
2. 50% of each of my boys - Though I'd say that their finer attributes are the Venezuelan ones, there aren't a finer pair of half-micks anywhere.
3. The music - The Pogues, The Wolfe Tones, Phil Lynott, Van Morrison, The Chieftains... Yes. I will allow the Irish to own guitars and other musical instruments. I have yet to lift the moratorium off of Canada. Though I'll allow Sloan and Gordon Lightfoot to continue utilization of such, I still haven't forgiven you for Triumph, Chilliwack, Kim Mitchell or Celine Dion.
4. Guinness - Okay, at first, this sh*t tasted like an oil-change, but after a while you grow used to it. I've heard that pregnant women in the UK were given Guinness to drink in the Post WWII era, and it's not as caloric as one might think. Apparently it's got some nutritional value, so anything that nourishes me while making all the other rummies in the bar slightly more interesting is okay with me.
5. The myths and legends - Balor, the one-eyed god of death and Cuchulainn, killer of vicious mutts... now that's good folklore.
6. Scones - What do you get when you cross a muffin with a cookie? Dee-lish. (Oh. Did I just say "dee-lish? That was a little high on the 'Brokeback' meter)
7. The art - Though I find the overtly religious imagery a little tiresome, Celtic designs are cool as sh*t... (though sh*t probably measures at somewhere near 98 degrees when it comes out, so I correct myself. Hot as sh*t.)
8. The literature - James Joyce is a bit thick to trudge through, Yeats, Beckett and Wilde could string together some verbage. Frank McCourt also gots game.
9. The hot redheads - (and the accompanying freckled chests... growllll)
10. The cop that says, "Ye' might, rrrabit. Ye might." to Bugs Bunny. It has provided me with an all-encompassing catchphrase with which to tease my wife.

Okay, now that the warm and fuzzies have all been itemized, here's a short list about what chafes me about the Emerald Isle and its inhabitants. Now before you make a St. Sebastian out of me... It was (stifled laughter) difficult to come up with ten things I dislike.

What Chafes me About the Irish
1. The temper - You give the Italians a good run for the money, without the vendettas and concrete shoes. The Middle East might seem to have the edge, though, strictly from a male perspective - but I'd pit a pissed off Irish broad against any irate Muslim dude and comfortably put a C-note on the lass.
2. That potato thing - I'm not going to demean the significance of this event and the millions of people it affected, but you shot yourselves in the foot by:
(a) relying heavily on one crop for your nutritional needs and
(b) allowing effete a**holes to dictate your landowning policies.
3. the Celts - Though this is only partially Irish, when the Romans invaded in 43 a.d. you got your asses kicked. That didn't take long, but you ended up adopting their religions, ooh-ing and ahh-ing their roads and buildings and even went as far as to join the Roman army while the Picts continued to wreak havoc on the invaders.
4. Speaking of Religions - Though I can wholeheatedly say that all religions suck equally (except the Church of Latterday Prego), you fell vicitms to the lethal combo of religion and politics. Then again, so has half the planet. Also, keep in mind that the snakes that St. Patrick was purported to have removed from Ireland are widely considered to be a metaphor for pagan religions. How's that for brotherhood and tolerance?
5. Corned Beef and Cabbage - What the f**k is up with the boiling? There goes the flavour and the nutritional value... up in steam.
6. The Kennedys - I can't fault them for an overwrought affinity for fine tail, but does it have to have a body count? If Clinton was a Kennedy, that chubby-ass 'ho Lewinsky would have been throw in the Potomac faster than you can say "Chappaquiddick."
7. Lucky Charms - Hands down, the worst cereal to grace supermarket shelves, and therefore Leprechauns - A blight on an otherwise illustrious and rich folkloric tradition. The only amusing depiction of such was in the Simpsons Treehouse of Horror XII. Other than that, they're about as charismatic as the mascot of the 1996 Olympic games in Atlanta.
8. Those plaques with Irish blessings and prayers. May the Lord Bless you and Keep you Irish and all that sh*t. I'd rather hang a Velvis on my wall.
9. That goofy-ass dance - Thank goodness I have boys... Otherwise I know my wife would want our kids to learn that steppity-step sh*t. I was at an "Irish" pub in Toronto a couple years back, and they a live band. A couple patrons brought their daughters to do that 'Raindance' bullsh*t in front of them. It was cute for about 3 minutes. After 17 more minutes of the same routine It was downright nauseating.
10. The alcoholic persona - Every mid-March I have to hear every Irish acquaintance tell me how sh*t-housed they're going to get at the parade. Great. Have fun, Paddy. Why don't you perpetuate another classy ethnic stereotype, such as belligerence and lack of height? If you were an Italian woman, would you grow a moustache on your thirtieth birthday?
*11. Dishonorable mention - U2

Waterparks - An Anthropological Study

At the behest of the in-laws, my wife and I braved the wintry drive down the Interstate 90 to the Greater Erie, PA Metropolitan Area during the holiday weekend. The only reason I know this burg exists is because I'd occasionally go visit friends at Mercyhurst College. Other than that, it's a mere blip on my geographical radar. I often joke that it's what Buffalo, NY would be if we lost all our major sports franchises.

I'd imagine the denizen of Erie sought a variety of ways to draw national attention to their municipality: legalized gambling, a grandiose and useless convention centre or drawing the NFL's Rams or Cardinals franchises. The brainchild of the Erie Chamber of Commerce came in the form of Splash Lagoon, a large, indoor water park in a busy highway-side hotel complex. This self-contained, man-made paradise is surprisingly quite a draw.

I had my initial reservations about paying Splash Lagoon a visit, picturing its clientele to be the regurgitation of every trailer park from Syracuse to Toledo. Also, I wasn't looking forward to baring the beer t*ts in public. The last concern, of course, was the idea of having to eat corporate slop for two days and pay premium prices for the displeasure. It's not that I have a sensitive palate or anything, but I do like to pamper my sense of taste. Logic would also have it that if you were somehow sequestered inside any such structure, a stadium, movie theatre, concert venue or the like, you pretty much leave yourself at the mercy of the proprietors when it comes to pricing. Raise your hand if you've ever paid $6 for a beer, $3 for a bottle of water or $4.50 for a small, grease-saturated slice of sh*tty pizza.

Prior to leaving for my trip, I had several friends and co-workers ask, "Let me know what you think. I was thinking of taking the kids." Since my return, I've gotten the, "How was it? I was thinking of taking the kids," query. Now, I'm all about the public service, and if I can help my dear friends plan a fun filled vacation, I'll offer up advice. I'd hate for anyone to spend $276 (family of four) for admission and accomodations for one night, and not feel they've gotten maximum value for their entertainment dollars. Firstly, I shall give a scholarly look at the homo sapiens that frequent the waterparks (and I'm assuming that any similar park in the United States will yield similar results - as large as the U.S. may be, we're a very homogenous culture). I will then assess the accommodations and culinary & health concerns I'm sure others would have.

The Water Creatures
I would be the last person qualified to critique the physcial attributes of my fellow men. I am about fifteen pounds too heavy to be an Adonis, and my muscle tone rivals that of a chess champion. Regardless of that fact, I had no apprehensions in removing my t-shirt in this place. Comparatively, I felt (and I'm saying this in a staunchly non-gay fashion) like Brad Pitt amid hundreds of physiques that ranged from Tom Hanks in the Philadelphia role to the more frequently sighted John Goodman and the late Chris Farley. I doubt any of the ladies consider this to be a pro or con when deciding where the family should vacation, but from a self-conscious male perspective, nearly everybody's hoss is much, much larger than yours. The sleek, muscular shark is a rarity in these waters. This is beluga 'aqua'tory.

Ladies, as a married man, I know how overly concerned you are about your posteriors. Let me assure you, that the same rule
applies. I didn't know that they made fabrics that could contain such massive amounts of flesh. Thank the goddamned lord. You've got nothing to worry about, because invariably, someone else looks much worse than you in their bathing suits. In fact, at the risk of rocking the boat on the home-front (Honey, this is strictly for research), there were only about a dozen bona fide MILFs (You were one of them, baby.) compared to the hundreds of M.I.W.N.F.I.A.M.Y. (Mothers I Would Never ... ... In A Million Years - those come in all shapes and sizes). Don't get me wrong. I give my girls a little leeway in the LBS. department (I love the big hussies), but some of these lasses haven't seen a salad in years.

Those of you men who are prone to NRBs (Remember Eighth Grade? Getting called to the chalkboard?) have nothing to fear. It will recoil in horror before it decides to get up to take a peek around. Mermaids are in Florida this time of year, leaving Splash Lagoon to the water buffalo. When biology does draw your eyes anywhere, you must avert them immediately, since whatever it gazed upon will get you 10-15 years in the hoosegow anywhere other than West Virginia and Oklahoma.

I'll have to say on the most part, there are a lot of fat little sh*ts around. There were a couple eight year old boys that looked like they outweighed me at age eighteen, when I tipped the scale at a scrawny 128 lbs. Aside from the abundance of girth, there's the absence of manners. When did "excuse me fade into obscurity.

Number of "excuse me"s given - 2
Number of instances when "excuse me"s were warranted - 82

The offences ranged from pushing past you on some of the water attractions to not looking where they were going or darting around you in doorways.There were various occasions when I had to put out a defensive forearm to keep my two boys from getting barrelled over by some impetuous sh*tbag from Gowanda. I'll admit there were a couple I saw coming that impelled me to line my duffel bag up with their face. I did this without compunction, regardless of age (though I tended to spare those under nine) and gender.

I went as far as to compliment the parents of the two or three kids who did say "excuse me."

Me - You've got some polite kids, there. That's the first 'excuse me' I've heard all day.
Other Dad - Thanks. I beat it into them.

If we were near a bar, I'd have bought him a beer or a highball.

Aside from the usual unruliness we've come to expect from your children, there's the water guns and booby traps we didn't expect. Fine. I understand it's a waterpark, so I'll take a couple of squirts in good humour, but when your little cretin mans the water cannon for more than six minutes, bombarding complete strangers (mostly adults), it borders on insolent. (*note to park - The rest of the park has heated water. Why do the water cannons have cold?)

The Water Attractions
Normally, I don't do well with gravity, so I tend to avoid it. Carting along a two and four year-old precluded my sampling out the slides. My wife managed a couple. Fun and bumpy. I tried one myself, with the O-Dog riding shotgun. Fun and bumpy. We were relegated to the shallow kiddie pools and the 'family pond.' The water is heated and seemingly clean. Seemingly. I'm no biologist, so I might not be qualified to expound here, but we are usually on top of the Fletchmonster's diapers. When we got back to the hotel, (after the periodic checks - "Fletch, did you poo-poos?" "No."
and a couple of peeks) we found a waterlogged swimmy-diaper with a full load. We don't know when the load occurred, but it seemed to have been submerged. It didn't look like it escaped, per se, but what do I know. Considering how many diapered babies there were in the place (shudder) I'd have to say the Fletchmonster's bowel movement was an isolated instance.

Then there's the case of the 'closed family pond.' I couldn't help but to recall the Snickers Bar gag in Caddyshack and was not about to put the boys in there without a full breakdown from the staff. It never came, and we didn't stick around enough to see it re-open.

Overall, the boys had fun, and that made it sort of worthwhile. Then again, from my boys perspective, the bathtub is the place to be in the Prego household.


The Grub & Crib
Breakfast - Continental breakfast seems to be the best way to go here.

Lunch - The standard fare - greasy fries, pizza & those crappy little ice cream pellets - are readily available. Sensible spenders should stick to the pizza - $13 for a large, cheese greasy wheel with the added charges for the toppings. There's a bar there, but no bar food, so you have to bring the slop from the food court downstairs. I can understand this inconvenience, since this is a family-fun place and all that, so all the young swingers are rolling elsewhere. This is the best place to eat, though, if you have a couple of young ones, since it's away from all the chaos (and you can wash the crap down with some good swill.)

Dinner - Here's where my wife and I vehemently disagreed. I like to go off the beaten path when it comes to dining. I'd rather venture out, and find a local establishment for a freshly prepared meal. Okay, Erie PA is not exactly rich in haute cuisine, but it's worth a try. The Mrs. argued that it was cold outside.

Mrs. - Why get the kids all bundled up to drive out to eat when everything's right here?
Me - Because all these yokels are going to eat 'here' too.

She won. Waiting for a table for twenty was going to take nearly two hours, so the extended family was split up at Boston's "Gourmet" Pizza. Gourmet to whom? Having been pizza'd out, I tried the Shanghai Shrimp pasta dish. No self-respecting Asian would prepare this meal, much less eat it. Mrs. Prego wasn't too fond of her bowtie chicken concoction either. The kids are always fussy at restaurants, so the fact thet Fletchmonster spit out the 'dino-nuggets' while the O-Dog barely looked at his is not an indictment of Chef Whitey.

Finally, the hotels. Comfort Inn, Econolodge, Residence Inn... Two beds, clean, TV. What else do you need to know?

There you have it. Depending on where you are on the socioeconomic scale, this might be your bag, or you wouldn't be caught dead there. Speaking of which, I was recognized by one person. I'm guessing this place has a high anonymity factor for upper middle class and beyond. Also, considering the population from where the park draws, you might not necessarily run in to your mechanic here, either. Ultimately, it's about the kids... and if they're into this sort of thing, it might be worth gritting your teeth for one or two weekends a every couple of years.

Help Woodsy Spread the Word...

Along with my caring parents, nothing raised me better than television. It shaped me into the well-rounded individual that I am today. Watching hours of Gilligan, Lucy or Fonzie did little more than keep my finger on the pulse of the American consciousness, but what did have a lasting impact on my psyche were the commercials. There were three in particular that immediately spring to mind.

The first, and earliest commercial to mould and forge my impressionable young mind was a public service advert about smoking. This animated short featured the three pigs and their old nemesis: the Big Bad Wolf. This wolf wasn't a "huffer and puffer." No. He was a flat out puffer - 2 pack-a-day, stinky ass clothes, yellowed toothed "Fweeeeep... Ahhhh. Flavour country " smoker. When it came time to blow the house down, he could barely muster up enough breath to blow out a birthday candle.

That sh*t was just flat out scary. In fact, it was this indelible vignette that served as the impetus for me to quit smoking. After years of attempting to woo the ladies through a hazy cloud of Camel Lights, I finally decided I'd had enough (along with the fact that I played soccer on a team that seldom had substitutes to relieve me in my hacking and wheezing.)


Then there's the Trix commercials. These plugs nudged me towards altruism. Those little sh*theels that denied the poor rabbit the simple pleasures of a bowl of sugary cereal drove me to odium. What's a bunny gonna do if he gots a sweet tooth. Rather than lookin' out for a brother, these little cretins yoinked the sh*t right out of his hands. There's an endearing group for you. Then again, kids in commercials have always annoyed me like underwear in my crack.

It's not so much that I know behind the cameras lie a deluded stage mom delighted to have sold her child to shill-dom, but as a general rule, kids in commercials, particularly lately, strike me as as*holes. Ever see that commercial where that middle school kid's mother gives him a Pop Tart on the way out the door? Then he runs into 'Kid B,' who gives him the contraband Toaster Streudel. When they finally get to Sh*tbag Jr. High School Kid B asks Kid A what he does with all the Pop Tarts just as an avalanche of uneaten Pop Tarts hits the floor. F*ck you, you little ingrate. If you're not going to eat the Pop Tarts have the decency to tell your mother to stop spending her hard-earned money on them.


Finally, anybody over the age of 30 will likely remember that advert featuring a Native American dude, paddling a canoe across a litter filled creek. As he stands by the roadside, Whitey comes along and chucks a take out container of spaghetti and meatballs out of the window of their 1974 Chrysler POS. The only thing that might keep this commercial from re-airing is that it toes the line of ethnic stereotypes - the same ethnic stereo-type that felled the laundering 'Chinaman' and his "Ancient Chinese Secret: Calgon".

Judging by the amount of sh*t that accumulates on my heavily trafficked front yard, I'd say this commercial wasn't as memorable to other members of the community. You know who you are, sh*tbird. You're that same lousy parent that allowed your children to make phrases such as "Please," "Excuse me" and "Good morning" as archaic as "groovy" and "jive." Yeah, I see the byproducts of your ovum and sperm walk past twenty-eight garbage cans on garbage day and instead toss their heavily salted "Frito Lay" bag in my garden upon finishing it. I wouldn't mind it if it were biodegradable, but then again, healthy food is beyond your grasp.

I noticed that the eating habits of the average litterbug borders on sh*tty. A steady stream of grease stained pizza plates, McDonald's soda pop cups, Hostess doughnut & ice-cream sandwich wrappers and the aforementioned corn chip bags will attest to the fact that this walking sack of fat and bones has a bloodstream that flows as smoothly as toothpaste. It's comforting to know that this person will likely die soon, but in their wake they will leave another generation who tosses cigarette packs and losing lottery tickets on the sidewalk without compunction.

I'd be willing to take the place of Iron Eyes Cody. It won't be a tear you see on my cheek. You'll see a twitch of rage, a clenched fist and a chubby Hispanic male running up the street, shouting "Come back here, you c*ck-sucker. Come pick this up before I jam this pizza box in your ass. Sideways!"