私-私

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.

Shecky Greeene Brown

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

Pfooooooffff....

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.

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...

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.

From the Annals of "My B*tch Can Beat Up yo' B*tch"

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.

Elvis & Priscilla

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.