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...

O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and Arborcide

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


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


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

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



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

The Saga Continues...

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

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

"You're not gooning me, pal."

I've been humbled.

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

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

E



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

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

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

Thank You,
F

Enter the "Dra-Goon"

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.