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.

Pucks, Pads and Piss

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.

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.

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.