Postponed, Due to Lack of Interest

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

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

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

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

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

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

(hmmm...)

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

O-Dog: I don't KNOW!

Prego: Oh, you're not there yet?

O-Dog: Where?

Prego: You don't notice girls.

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

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

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

"nerb *" as he goes to the chalkboard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh look. A splattoo."

"Oh look. She's driving a Beetle"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh look. Mich Ultra."

"Oh look. She jogged her boobs away."

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

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

"Oh look. Liberal bumper stickers."

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

"Oh look. She said 'Chai.'"

"Oh look. An Ani DiFranco CD."

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

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

"Oh look. She hates the three Stooges."

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

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

"Oh look. She's vajazzled."

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

Chain of Pain

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

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

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

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

All Right, F*ck It.

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

Last gasp?

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

Sub-Zero Memories

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing more life-affirming than winter.

Another Attempt to Get Back in the Saddle

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

I'll keep it simple.

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

Directions:

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

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

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

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

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

Holy Sh*t. Has it been a year?

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

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

I guess ultimately it doesn't matter.  

Trifecta

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

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

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

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

Heh.

Heh-heh.

Heh.


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

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

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

and to Jackson Pollock.

Ruminations on Procreation

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, dear."

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Today, 6.38 am:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zzzzzz. Zzzzzzzzz.

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


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

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

There.

Good to be back.

PS. Still no baby yet. Any day now.

Copyright Infringement

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

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

NO, PREGO!

Prego's wife always said...

Gorgon? Zola?

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

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

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

"Do you know what you're having?"

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

"Do you have names picked out?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The precarious teen years:

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

The treacherous high school years:

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

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


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

(Everyone files out)

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

in which case:

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

and years later:

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


Or then again, we can just go with Kayeleeh.

私-私

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


...of a sheep.


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

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

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

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

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

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

and

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

a sheep.


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

Boinggggggg...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shecky Greeene Brown

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

"Hot" Mail

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

'Drear' Prego:

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

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

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

Nefariously Yours,
Lucifer

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

Soul for Sale

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely
Prego


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

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

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.

Iron Tyke

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

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

The Fletch has recently invented a new kind of hero.

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

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

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

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

"Because the little f*cker bit me."

Mandibula?
The Chomper?
Masticator?

Now that's my kind of hero.