Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Quit bugging me

God has decided to have a little joke today, for Hallowe'en, and turn my house into some buggy version of Amityville Horror. As you lot know, I have a Serious Bug Phobia. Yesterday, I was baking a cake and right after I had got done mixing the batter I put away the mixer. I turned back to the mixing bowl, full of cake batter, and there in the midst of it was a daddy long legs (Note to Brit-type people: that's a type of big, scrawny long-leggedy spider here in the US, not a flying bug) making its way across the batter, dead in the center of the bowl. I have no idea where it came from. I waited for it to get to the edge of the bowl, let it crawl up a napkin I conveniently held out for it, and then squashed it. Yuck.

After the cake was done baking, I put it out to cool, and when I returned to the kitchen later, fuck me if there wasn't a mosquito on it, having a go. Now, it was a white cake, and all warm, so the mosquito might have mistaken it for an arm or something, but that was still not valid. I got the heebie-jeebies, and it reminded me of a bug version of that scene in "American Pie." Yuck, again. I tried to pick it and smush it, but it was too fast for me.

Much later, I was back in the kitchen, doing the dishes. I found out the mosquito was still in there, and had been joined by a fly. I do not appreciate bugs landing on me, nor sucking at me, but I had to get the dishes done. You know that video clip of that commercial with Michael J. Fox in it? The one that Rush Limbaugh's slagging him off about? The one where he spazzes out like a itchy break dancer on speed? Well, that's what I looked like, trying to keep that fly and mosquito from landing on me.

Much, much later, I was sitting at the computer, typing away. I may have had a few drinks in between, and forgotten to put away the fixin's. The Fledgling Sparrow comes out of her room, goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, looks at the kitchen counter, looks at me, and says, "Someone's been visiting Margaritaville."

Fucking teenagers. I drink to forget, you fucking teenager, I drink to forget!

Damn. Next time I should remember to put away the drink stuff.

Fat Sparrow

Everyday is Hallowe'en

As Johnnyboy reminded me, I have been a slack bastard and have not posted. I apologize. Between the cleaning, the Fledgling Sparrow's birthday, my sinus infection, and plotting certain people's deaths, I have been busy.

My house is still a shithole, but the chunks are up, at least. Luckily for me, my parents weren't in here long, as we all took the kid out to dinner (Mexican food, yum!). I will have to do a more intensive cleaning before Thanksgiving, so I'm not looking forward to that. You lot may think I'm joking about the dust and dirt here, but it's no exaggeration. We live in a semi-desert area, with constant high winds, in a house that doesn't seal up. As soon as we dust, it settles right back down. If you go a couple of weeks without dusting, the dust on the bookshelves starts to get dunes and drifts.

We're still fairly busy, as we have the whole getting ready for Hallowe'en thing going on, and we will be out at the Community Center for a free Hallowe'en party and haunted house. The Nestling Sparrow has been practicing being a ghost and scaring people. We got him a pirate outfit, but I think he has decided to be a ghost pirate ("Arrrrrr! Boooo! Did I scare you? Did I scare you?"). The Fledgling Sparrow is dressing up in my Ren Faire outfit. She doesn't have the norks to fill the bodice out, but what can you do?

The Fledgling Sparrow has a friend coming over, who is going with us to the party. The Spouse Sparrow and I are planning on knocking back a few before we all go, so we do not have to kill the teenagers. The Fledgling Sparrow must have had an extra helping of stupid lately, as she has asked me five times (at least) what I am going as for Hallowe'en. I have told her repeatedly that I am not dressing up. She asked again last night, and I finally snapped and said "Yer ma!"

I love Hallowe'en. It's my favorite holiday; a holiday with no pressure. Christmas you have to worry about giving gifts, Thanksgiving you have to worry about cooking food and having people over, New Year's sucks if you are single, or if you are married with kids and can't go out, ditto for St. Patrick's, triple for Valentine's, and Easter has Lent and church and all that crap. Hallowe'en is the best, it's all about the fun, and no pressure at all. Hallowe'en is all about whatever you want it to be.

Happy Hallowe'en to all!

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Panic on the streets of....

I must, absolutely must clean my hovel. My parents are coming over, as it is the Fledgling Sparrow's birthday tomorrow (she will be 15), and my house looks like Miss Havisham's, but without the elegance. Very appropriate for Hallowe'en, if it wasn't for the carpet of dog hair.

My parents will be positively appalled. I mean, not that they haven't seem it messy, but still. My mother will shake her head sadly, sure that my blogging is ruining my life. As if I had a life?

It's their fault, anyway. Why am I not a rich trust fund brat? Spoiled rich girls pay someone to clean for them.

We have had the Santa Ana winds here, and everything is covered in an inch of dust and dirt. I hate the winds; 50 mph, a constant breeze blowing through my house (even with it closed up), and yet still I have a cloud of dog farts hanging over everything. Not only that, we're at 9% humidity, and I feel like Cassandra in Dr. Who: "Moisturize me, I'm drying out!"

I had better get to the cleaning. See you lot later.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, October 26, 2006

My lump, my lump, my volar wrist ganglion cyst bump

As promised, I finally went to the doctor, and guess what he told me, guess what he told me?

Nothing; my doctor's a girl, remember?

I have a sinus infection. I knew that one, as I get them all the time. Antibiotics for two weeks, yada yada, yada yada, thing. I still have my fever, but I am starting to feel better, and at least I can sleep now. So, you can all stop being afraid of whatever delirious comments you were a-feared of me putting on your blogs. I will be no worse than usual now. Sleep is good, as I was not getting much of it, due to feeling icky, and between that and the fever I was quite goofy.

The lump on my wrist is a ganglion cyst, but as it has gone down a lot, the doctor doesn't feel I need to do anything about it right now. She says they're quite common. I don't think that's very valid, as I am used to getting obscure diseases, but I suppose the common-ness of you lot has rubbed off on me. Maybe I should bathe more often. My arm stopped hurting a bit back, but started up again since the doctor felt the need to pulverize my wrist bones while feeling up my bump.




A picture of my actual doctor. Note the ruthless gaze, intent on causing pain
and suffering.


My doctor looked at me as if I were Queen of the Mongs when I told her about that motion-sickness I get during sex. She put me on an anti-nausea pill (one of the many uses Phenergan has), and explained the side effects. I told her I had been on it before, and she asked me what side effects I had experienced. I did my best impression of a sleepwalking, snoring zombie. "Ah, sedative effect," she noted in my chart. She said "Your husband may not like that one, you being sleepy during sex." I replied "No, it's probably not a problem. He likes it when they lie still." The Spouse Sparrow was not amused. It's true though, dammit. I wake up with my nether regions all sticky, and ask him "Did we have sex?" He says "Well, I did."

Kids are their own form of birth control, and especially when they're in a crib in the same room as you. We turned on the TV in the bedroom the other day for the Nestling Sparrow, so that we could have a bit of a lie-in. The Spouse Sparrow and I start spooning, and I then I hear Diego on the TV saying "Come on, let's ride the whale! Vamanos!" and the Spouse Sparrow says "Oh yeah, baby, ride the whale!" The Nestling Sparrow pipes up with "I want to ride the whale, too!" Bah, possible sex session over.

You know, between the Nestling Sparrows constant tantrums, nighttime wakings, refusal to eat solid food, potty train, or even let us have sex, I am suspecting that he may not want a sibling. He could have just said so.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

The Village Idiot

Okay, you lot; I need some help.

Last night I let the Nestling Sparrow sit on my lap at the computer while I was surfing blogs. "What could it hurt?" I thought, in my innocence. I've let him sit with me at the computer before, as he likes to look at Monstee's site (when we can see it, still can't at the moment; we miss you, Monstee!), and he likes to press the key for the letter "J." Don't know why, but it's his favorite right now. Anyhow, he pressed something else on the keyboard (don't know what, but it had to be on the left hand side), and now almost everything we look at on the computer has microscopic font, and is wonky in other ways.

If anyone has a clue as to what the hell the Nestling Sparrow has done, and knows a possible remedy, can you e-mail me at TheFatSparrow@aol.com? I would really, really, appreciate it. I mean like blow-job appreciate it.

The our system is a PC, brand-spankin' new. We just got it in August. The last time I had a computer, it was mid-2001, and I don't remember jack squat about computers anymore. I used to... Well, I won't say I used to know what I was doing, but I didn't suck. I used to help other people with this kind of stuff. I remember computers as being a lot easier. You opened up the panels, gave the hamsters inside a good talking to, cleaned the shit off their wheel, and everything was okay. The computer we have now has this Cylon eye-thingie on it, I can't see where the hamsters live, and frankly, it scares me.

I also suspect that my brain has gone to mush since I have had the last kid. I am definitely getting dumber.

If I can't get this font thing fixed, I will go blind. That would be quite ironic, considering that years of masturbating didn't do it.

I'm going to the doctor's today, as my sinus infection has decided to give me 103 degree fevers (which may have something to do with my general level of stupidity and wackiness lately), but if you could e-mail me anyway, the Spouse Sparrow can check my e-mail and possibly have a go at the problem, if the Nestling Sparrow will give him any peace.

Thank you!

Fat Sparrow


Update -- I've received a couple of e-mails, but still no fixes! I still need help!

FS

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Spouse Sparrow talks about: Being a moron magnet

Today while working outside, I was accosted by one of my neighbours who decided they wanted to do some male bonding and small talk with me.

My neighbour "Dan" is a stout fellow with a beard. He's loud, shouts at his kids, sells pot to supplement his income, and his wife has herpes and drinks a lot. A typical all-American family. There, now you know him as well as I do.

He started the conversation with, "I was watching the History Channel (he must have changed to that channel by mistake, then he dropped the remote and was too fat to bend down and get it); are all the buildings in Ireland old?" Lucky I had sunglasses on or he would have seen the eye roll.

I could tell Ireland and Northern Ireland were the same in his mind, so I answered accordingly. I explained, as I would to a small child, "There are new buildings, and old buildings and some that are a bit of both." I hoped that was it and I really did try to edge away but being a polite Brit, I found it difficult.

The questions kept coming: "Aren't there any minorities over there?"

"Not really, no," I said, edging father away.

"Are the people in Ireland all racist then?" Dan comes from a long line of KKK members so he really wanted to know this one.

"No, they are religious bigots." I explained a little about Catholics and Protestants and how in N.I. mostly everyone is white. I've had a similar conversation with him before but stoners can't remember shit.

"How did the whole religion thing start?" was his next question. F**k, don't these people have a computer? Have they not heard of Google?

I answered simply and more or less correctly to a point, "Henry the 8th sent Scottish Protestants to N.I. to drive out the Irish Catholics."

"They must have killed a lot of them?" he questioned further. I told him it was less genocide and more treating them like shit. To top it off I compared it to the Americans taking the land from the Indians. He got that example, no doubt to forget it 10 minutes later.

He then went on to tell me (again, and probably quite often in the future as well) that his family can be traced back to the 14th century and that his ancestor was the Prime Minister of England. I don't know how I kept a straight face.

He also told me his ancestor had a town named after him, (we'll call it) "Biggefatretarde." Now this is a real town and I had heard of it, so I told him that his name "Bigfatretard" (Americans changed all the immigrant names) sounded Scandinavian and he probably was related to Viking invaders and that he might have had ancestors that were knighted.

He was quite happy to hear this as it was better than his current life; no wonder he likes talking to me. He then went on to tell me how he tries to instill values and morals into his kids. This is priceless, coming from a drug dealer that's always late on his rent and works as little as possible. You know, I would just be happy if he made his usually hungover big beast of a teenage daughter put some clothes on and quit whoring it at the construction workers across the street.

I had enough by that point and stated, "Well, I better get back to work," and walked off.

I know there are intelligent nice Americans over here, I just always meet the morons.

Spouse Sparrow

Sunday, October 22, 2006

So many gifts, and it's not even Christmas

Apparently there are a whole lot of marks out there (Kav and Ill Man; oops, did I type that out loud?), and you all are just begging to be taken advantage of, much like women who wear mini-skirts and low-cut blouses.

Now, when I was a kid, I was the one taking advantage of the other kids, because (let's face it) kids are fucking dumb. I started practicing on my brother, early on. There were the usual games, like "Two For Flinching," which for those of you who don't know, is a game where you punch someone and if they flinch you get to hit them again.

Then there was "Okay Look," a fun little game for car rides in which you had to trick your opponent into looking at your hand as you made the "OK" sign. When they did, you punched them.

Then there was "I Can't Tell You're There, As I Have Rendered You Invisible." This one involved ignoring some kid (usually my ADHD brother) until they absolutely snapped, lost all control, and hit you. Then you got to yell for your mom, and they got spanked.

Before you go all "Awwwwww!" for my brother, let me tell you right now that he was a right twat, and his favorite game was "Get As Close As Possible, And Breathe All Over You." This was followed up by "Standing Up And Farting In Your Face While You Are Sitting On The Floor."

Using chemical warfare is always cheating, dammit.

The kids at school were right gifts, too. When I was in elementary school, the girls liked to dare each other to play "Bloody Mary." Now, this was nothing more than going in to the girls' bathroom, turning off the lights, and facing the mirror while chanting "Bloody Mary" three times. Supposedly, Bloody Mary would then come and get you, and you would be well fucked.

I upped the dares to bets for lunch money, and cleaned up from that pack of twats. There was nothing in that bathroom that could possibly be scarier than the smell, and if you could survive the door closing, and the concomitant lack of ventilation, it didn't really matter if the lights were on or off. To this day, I still cannot believe that something that dumb earned not only their respect, but their lunch money.

The teachers finally found out about it, as the lead girl upped the ante by demanding that I go in the boys' bathroom (gasps of horror all around), and the boys tattled on me, damn their small egos.

Speaking of boy's bathrooms, here's a handy little tip for you if you're ever at a concert or some venue where there's a line for the girls' bathrooms: Use the guys' bathrooms. There's never a line, and they never use the stalls. Unlike in elementary school, I have never had a guy complain about me using the men's. Quick, easy, and Bob's your uncle. I learned this one after going to the first Lollapalooza when I was 7 months pregnant, and I came down with a bladder infection while I was there. No, don't laugh yet, that wasn't the funny part. The funny part was me at Lollapalooza in a maternity dress.

Now, ladies, if you really want to freak them out, learn how to piss standing up, into a urinal. Of course, please make sure you wash your hands afterwards.

Of course it can be done! Didn't you girls ever go to summer camp?! Honestly, what do they teach kids nowadays? You don't even know you're born.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, October 20, 2006

Currying favor

You fucking whore!

No, not Belinda Cockbox, although she is undoubtedly one, too.

The Spouse Sparrow.


Me: (typing away at the computer) "Mmmm, that smells good! What is that you're cooking?

Spouse Sparrow: "Cauliflower."

Me: "You twat, cauliflower is not the nice smell that I smell. Cauliflower smells like aged dog farts."

Spouse Sparrow: "Must be the chicken, then."

Me: "Well, what are you doing to it? It smells really good."

Spouse Sparrow: (no answer)


An hour or so later....

Spouse Sparrow: (sits down in front of the TV with plate of food, quietly munches away)

Me: "Is that curry I smell?

Spouse Sparrow: (no answer)

Me: "You fucking whore! That is curry! Wanker!"

Spouse Sparrow: (shoveling curry into his gob as fast as possible) "No, it isn't. It's chicken and chips. You don't like chicken and chips, remember?"

Me: "Fuck you; that is curry."

Spouse Sparrow: (shovels food in faster)

Me: (gets up, goes in kitchen, looks in pots and pans on stove) "You bastard, you fixed curry, and you weren't even going to tell me!"

Fledgling Sparrow: (who is half-way through her dinner of left-over pot roast) "Mom! He fixed curry! That's not fair!"

Spouse Sparrow: (shovels in last of food, begins to lick curry sauce off plate)

Me: (plaintive and pathetic) "Can I have some? I take back all I said, really. I'm sure your parents were married, honest-like."

Spouse Sparrow: (evil grin)


I'm sure he'll make me pay for this later, but right now, I've got curry, hahahaha.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, October 19, 2006

They're a bit fucking edgy since the Steve Irwin thing, aren't they?

Everyone has got their panties in a bunch over the whole North Korea thing, but what are they doing about the sting rays? Nothing, I tell you, and it's a crying shame.

The U.N. really needs to get on this right away, as North Korea has yet to attack anyone, and sting rays are very obviously on the war path. I know I just don't feel safe in my own home now. Okay, that's because I live in the ghetto, but still.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

My daughter is a gift

My 14-year-old daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow, or, as we affectionately call her, "Special Ed," is highly gullible. She has always been this way, and she is very susceptible to suggestion, besides.

Up 'til the age of about 9, it was incredibly easy to go Christmas shopping with her. You would take her to the toy department at the store, ask her opinion on which toy she liked best, and then say, "Look! Over there!" While her head was turned, you would put the toy in the shopping cart, cover it with a jacket, and she was none the wiser. You cannot do this with my toddler son, the Nestling Sparrow. Out of sight is not out of mind, for him. He will harangue you constantly until you have produced whatever it was that you had hidden or put away. I have high hopes for him.

A couple of years ago, my daughter's class planned on going to a local amusement park, Knott's Berry Farm, as their end-of-the-school-year trip. She was very excited, and came home talking all about how she was going to go on various rides, and roller coasters, and have a great time. Now, back in the day, when my mom was a kid, Knott's Berry Farm was actually a berry farm, and in fact they still have their own private-labeled jams and jellies, available at many grocery stores. The Knott family added various rides, etc., in the hope of attracting more people to their farm and restaurant. Soon, there was no more farm, and it was solely an amusement park.

Now my daughter had no idea of the history of the place, as when we try to tell her things, he eyes glaze over, and we get incredibly frustrated. So when she came home all giddy and babbling, with news of the school trip, we told her that the students were wrong, it was not an amusement park, it was an actual berry farm, and school children went there on educational field trips, so that they could pick berries, and see how it was done. I went on, in detail, about the many times that I had been there, on either school trips or with my parents, and of my berry picking experiences. I told her that her grandmother had grown up not far from Knott's, and had picked berries there (which was true). She was slightly skeptical, as the other kids in her class had done an excellent job of hyping her up. But, it was a Friday, and she could not go back to school and talk to any of them about it.

The next day, Saturday, we went grocery shopping, and I showed her the jams and jellies on the store's shelves, which were definitely labeled "Knott's Berry Farm." She was absolutely convinced then, and completely crushed. She sulked all through Sunday.

Of course, Monday afternoon, when she came home from school, she was completely livid, and told us that she hated us. She, with her supposed superior knowledge gained over the weekend, had attempted to convince the other students of the berry picking operation at Knott's. It was only when a teacher intervened, and showed her pictures of the rides at the amusement park, and the other kids made fun of her, that she knew she had been had.

When she told us all this, we laughed so hard that we cried. It took us 30 minutes to finally stop laughing, and even now, years later, I am giggling away as I write this.

Why bother having kids, if you can't fuck with their heads for entertainment?

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

"Fat Sparrow: The Movie" (yeah, I'd wait for it to come out on video, too)

Okay, everybody slags off memes, but I fucking love them. #1, they give me insight into other people's psyches, and #2, they let me talk about my second favorite subject: Myself.

I got this one from
Clairwil.


This would be the soundtrack for the film of my life......


Opening Credits: "All Her Favorite Fruit" by Camper Van Beethoven

Waking Up: "Gabriel's Oboe" by Ennio Morricone

First Day At School: "You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby" by The Smiths

Sex Song: "Helter Skelter" cover by U2 (For a quickie), "Three Days; Extended Version" by Jane's Addiction (For the all night drunken fuck-fest), "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star (For the romantic stuff)

Party Song: "Mr. Jones" by Counting Crows (I don't know; this category was a real head-scratcher for me. At a party, I've usually cornered someone and am talking their ears off. I have no idea what's playing)

Falling In Love: "Killing Moon" by Echo and the Bunnymen, "To Sheila" by Smashing Pumpkins

Fight Song: "Opening Theme" from "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" (the TV series)

Getting Stoned: "Fool's Gold" by Stone Roses

Breaking Up: "Landslide" cover by Smashing Pumpkins

Prom: "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds (Yeah, I know; cheesy. So is prom. Deal with it)

Life Is Okay: "How Soon Is Now" by The Smiths

Mental Breakdown: "Dancing Barefoot" by Patti Smith

Driving: "Hotel California" by The Eagles

Flashback: "Heart Of Gold" by Neil Young

Getting Back Together: "Sleeping In The Devil's Bed" by Daniel Lanois

Wedding: "Lucky Man" by The Verve (Yes, I know I'm not a guy. Again, deal with it)

Birth Of A Child: "Birth Ritual" by Soundgarden (No, it's not very melodic, but neither was my actual screaming)

Final Battle: "The Battle Of Evermore" cover by The Lovemongers

Death Scene: "Elegia" by New Order

Funeral: "More Than This" by Roxy Music

Closing Credits: "Nightswimming" by R.E.M.


Fat Sparrow

Monday, October 16, 2006

Open bar (sidebar, that is)

I seem to be getting new people, so just to be friendly and all, I've categorized my posts by topic (sort of) in the lower part of my sidebar.

You lot can have a look-see around there, and see if anything interests you, if you hadn't already read it.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Tossing the salad

In case you Brit-type people have not heard, we have been having an E. coli scare here in the States, having to do with lettuce and spinach grown here in California.

Obviously, I am some sort of a mong, because upon hearing about the contaminated lettuce and spinach, I said "Mmmmmm, salad!" Then I promptly went out and bought a whole lot of lettuce and produce, and proceeded to chow down. Fucking power of suggestion.

You would think that the grocery stores would have lowered their prices, considering that people are dropping dead from eating veg, but no, they have not. A dollar fucking thirty-nine for iceberg lettuce, that's what they wanted per head in Stater Bros., if you can believe that. I went over to Superior (a Mexican/Hispanic grocery chain; slang for these types of stores would be "Mexi Mart") and they were only charging 79 cents. That's more like it. Also they are just a couple of blocks from us, which is always good when you're walking.

I am really starting to appreciate the Mexi Mart (which just opened last year), as you can get way cheaper meat and produce, plus all your Catholic/Botanica needs are covered, also. Anyplace where I can get cheap potatoes, a Virgin Mary candle, and a bottle of tequila is all right by me.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, October 13, 2006

I'm going to start telling people she's adopted

I cannot believe the utter idiocy that comes out of my teenager's mouth.

Today, the Fledgling Sparrow asked me "Mom, who was it in the Bible that said 'If you build it, they will come'?"

Honest to fuck, that's what she asked me.

Yes, this is the one that's an Honor Student.


Fat Sparrow

Thursday, October 12, 2006

The temperature has actually been below 80!

It has finally cooled down here in So Cal. We've had 5 days in a row now where I did not have to turn on the swamp cooler (a type of really crap air conditioner). I don't want to jinx it, but I think that autumn may actually be here. I am even wearing a sweater right now.

In "Other Important News," I have a large lump on my wrist. It is not from wanking. It is not from hitting it on anything. It is not discolored. It just mysteriously appeared the other day. I think I may contain some type of alien larvae. Thank God for the Internet, as I will now do a search on my strange symptoms.

It had better not be morgellons, I'll tell you that. There's far too much of that shit going around. Dirty bastards.

Update! -- Oh my God, it's worse than morgellons. I feel ill. That's what I get for looking at medical pictures on the Internet. It looks like I might have something called a "wrist ganglion." I have no idea how I got this, but when I find out which one of you dirty fuckers gave it to me, I am telling your mother/spouse/significant other/sex toy.

You can read a description here and here and see pictures here and here.

Some of the helpful descriptions in the above sites:

"One traditional method of treating a ganglion cyst was to whack the lump with a large, heavy book. And since even the poorest households usually possessed a Bible, that was what they used, which is how ganglion cysts came to be nicknamed 'Bible Bumps' or sometimes 'Gideon's Disease'."

Oh, excellent. Faith-based healing. I believe my HMO covers that.

"Another alternative, that some call traditional, others call a bit barbaric, is to smash the wrist ganglion cyst with a hard object such as a book. This pops the cyst, and ruptures the lining of the cyst. Because the lining is disrupted, the smashed ganglion cyst may not return quite as often as those drained by a needle. However, many patients are uncomfortable with their doctor 'whacking' a book against their wrist..."

No shit; you don't say! I am not letting my doctor do that, even if it is the recommended lower-cost option from my health plan.

My doctor is a young, sadistic little Asian-American chick with a Valley Girl accent, and I am pretty sure she went to a "party school." I'll just bet she knows this so-called treatment. She's not a big believer in anesthetics, either. If this was the Old West, she wouldn't even suggest that you drink whisky and bite the bullet before hand. You should have seen the butchery she did on my daughter's ingrown toenail. When the daughter finally went to a Podiatrist, he was appalled. Can't blame him. I watched the toe surgery, and I almost hurled and passed out.

Well, I've already got an appointment coming up on the 25th, for my sinus infection, and the queasiness I get during sex, so I suppose my doctor can have a look-see at my alien larvae then.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Cheer up, you sick fucker

The Ill Man is feeling a bit low (er, "While you're down there....") at the moment, so Clairwil suggested that we cheer him up. Credit to Spouse Sparrow for finding the link.


Okay, 'fess up. You know you've done it. We've all done it, it's just that some of us will actually admit it.

No, not wanking.

Cybersex.

Now, I'll admit, cybersex is not very satisfying, but at least my sessions never went as bad as these.

Fat Sparrow

Monday, October 09, 2006

Old Knudsen talks about: The Talented Mr. Knudsen

This is an actual e-mail I received:


I am a blogger here in the States.

Just getting started. name is Dave Knudsen from Seattle, Washington.

I guess my family is from Trondheim, Norway way back a piece.

Any relation?

Your posts are witty, If yah ever come over lets have a pint or two!


You see? as soon as I get famous all the distant relatives come out of the wood work, the thing I was wondering is, does Monstee get these people? does Dr Maroon get an e-mail from the Maroons of Greenwich ? Does Foot Eater get the Eaters of Kansas City wanting to know if they are related?

I e-mailed this fella back and got two pints raised to six and he's buying, this Interweb may come in handy after all.

Old Knudsen

Friday, October 06, 2006

Fire in the hole: A true story

This started out in the comments over at Sam's, but it was obviously far too long. Here it is in full; just one of the many stories I have about my ex-father-in-law.


My ex-father-in-law is an incredible specimen of a human being, by which I mean he should be put in a specimen jar, pickled, and stored in a museum somewhere, far, far away from me and mine.

Although retired now, he was a fireman for many years. Now, some of you may think that this would be a wondrous thing, having a fireman in the family, but this was a fireman who managed to set his own kitchen on fire.

My ex-father-in-law (let's call him "Dumbfuck") prided himself on being an excellent cook. He was not half bad, and did in fact do most of the cooking for the family, and a good portion of the cooking at the fire station, when he was on duty. I think he would have been a far better cook if he didn't pick his nose and wipe the boogers on his pants, or even washed his hands occasionally, but then again I'm somewhat of a particular person, as I was reminded by my ex-in-laws to no end.

One time, when Dumbfuck was cooking dinner at home, he started a grease fire in a frying pan on the stove (a gas range, not an electric cooker) in his kitchen. You would assume that Dumbfuck, as a fireman, would know how to handle this. You would be wrong.

When the smoke started pouring out of the frying pan, it occurred to him that maybe smoke was not a good thing, so he turned on the exhaust fan above the stove. Next, flames came shooting out of the pan, so he turned the exhaust fan on higher.

Surprisingly, at least to Dumbfuck, this did not put out the fire, so he then grabbed the pan's handle, without using a pot holder or oven mitt, thereby burning his hand in the process, and made his way with the flaming grease pan to the sink. Once there, he proceeded to run cold water at full blast on the flaming pan. The grease in the pan, not taking too kindly to this, and possibly remembering that maxim about "Out of the frying pan and into the fire," wisely decided to get the fuck out of there, and sloshed over to the kitchen window curtains, which immediately burst into flames.

Dumbfuck the Fireman was still holding the flaming pan, which the skin on his hand had burnt to, and he decided that blowing on the fire just might be a good idea. The fire did not like his plan, and promptly burnt off his eyebrows, which were most prodigiously bushy and long. Fire, as we all know, generally tends to travel up, and the front of his hair joined in the fray. Luckily for Dumbfuck, his eyebrows and hair were only melted and singed, as he was a real man, and not some metrosexual that uses hair products. If he was a metrosexual, he would have been well fucked.

Now, at this point in the story, Dumbfuck has had his facial hair melted, has set the kitchen curtains on fire, has turned the exhaust fan on "high," and is still holding the flaming pan.

While ignoring the fire quickly engulfing the kitchen curtains, he notices a small fire on the stove. What he does not realize is that this is not an accidental fire, but the gas burner he has failed to turn off. He sets the pan, still flaming, down on the counter, and proceeds to beat at the "fire" on the stove with several kitchen towels. Needless to say, the kitchen towels caught on fire. Realizing this, as soon as one catches on fire, he flings the burning towel behind him, and continues to beat at the "fire" on the stove with a fresh towel.

That last towel really ignites, and sends sparks up to the exhaust fan, which is still running on "high." The exhaust fan's motor and plastic fan blade melt, and proceed to make a whiny, high-pitched noise, adding to the general chaos in the kitchen. You may wonder why there was not another whiny, high-pitched noise in the kitchen; namely, the smoke alarm. Dumbfuck the Fireman had removed the batteries to the smoke alarms in the house, as they generally went off while he was cooking.

The burning towels which Dumbfuck had thrown behind him had fortuitously fallen on the tiled floor, and while burning themselves to a crisp, at least did not set anything else on fire. Likewise, the flaming curtains had melted to the plaster wall, and simply burnt themselves out. The flaming pan, which was set on the kitchen counter, was, however, still going at a good clip. The heat from the pan melted the Formica counter, and proceeded to burn a partial hole through the counter. This tilted the pan, so that the flaming grease fell out of the pan, through the hole in the Formica counter, and into the contents of the cabinet below the counter. What were those contents? Towels and cookbooks, which of course are flammable.

Dumbfuck the Fireman has finally realized that this fire may after all have gotten the best of him. But, with a sudden burst of inspiration, he has remembered that his wife keeps a fire extinguisher in the broom closet, which is in the kitchen. Sadly for Dumbfuck, he cannot remember how to use the fire extinguisher. Is he supposed to shake it before use? He knows there is a pin involved. Is he supposed to pull the pin and throw it? The flames from the cabinet will quickly be reaching the ceiling, so the matter has become urgent. His memory returns, and he pulls the pin, aims the fire extinguisher, and pulls the trigger. The fire extinguisher is old, and has lost its charge, but fortunately for Dumbfuck it still has enough ooomph to get the job done. The fire in the cabinet is out, and the flaming grease fire in the pan, along with it.

Now, after any type of fire, it is wise to call the fire department out, to make sure that the fire was actually contained, and will not re-spark later, and spread. Dumbfuck the Fireman remembers this much from his training, at least, so he promptly calls the fire station.

The fire station just happens to be the one he works at.

The Chief just happens to be on duty today.

The Chief and crew arrive to find that the yes, there still is a fire going. It's the "fire" on the stove burner, the one that Dumbfuck forgot to turn off. They kindly turn it off for him, and douse everything in sight with water. This is an esteemed colleague, after all. They wouldn't want his house to burn down. Better safe than sorry, you know. They go all through the kitchen, and are particularly concerned about the attic, as Dumbfuck had left the exhaust fan on while the fire was raging. The Chief sends a crew member up through the attic for inspection. Luckily, once again, for Dumbfuck, the attic had sustained no damage.

After the Chief had ascertained that everything was under control, he was required to take a report of how this all started, and the chain of events. Dumbfuck obligingly told him.

As the Chief and Dumbfuck are concluding, Mrs. Dumbfuck arrives home to find fire, flood, and famine (as the dinner was burnt). Mrs. Dumbfuck let Dumbfuck have it, with both barrels, in front of all his fire station associates. Mrs. Dumbfuck wears the pants in the family, so Dumbfuck takes it like the bitch he is. The brunt of the questioning from Mrs. Dumbfuck is along the lines of "Why in the fuck did you not just cover the pan with the lid?!"

Sure enough, upon closer inspection of the ruined stove, there was the lid to the pan. Dumbfuck had not needed it for his cooking, but he had got it out, just in case, because it's good to be prepared. As we all know (well, everyone except for Dumbfuck, apparently), the easiest way to put out a grease fire in a pan is to smother it, thereby depriving it of fuel.

One of the fireman, a kindly sort, reached in to his bag and came out with a fridge magnet, which he presented to Dumbfuck. The magnet was shaped like a pan, with flames coming out of it, and a hand was reaching over it, covering it with a lid. The caption read "Put the lid on grease fires!" The magnets were part of a new promotion that their fire department had been putting on. Dumbfuck had been handing out those self-same magnets for weeks now.

As far as I know, Dumbfuck still has that magnet on his fridge.

Mrs. Dumbfuck filed an insurance claim, and got a brand-new kitchen, a full remodel.

Dumbfuck the Fireman retired a few years back from the fire department. He still does the household cooking.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

You paid how much for that weed? You're a fuckwit

The Fledgling Sparrow's high school likes to mail out "informative" monthly newsletters to keep the parents apprised of what their kid's school is up to. This month is "Drug Awareness Month" or some such crap, and the newsletter asked us parents to talk to our kids about marijuana.

Fuck's sake, I've been talking to her about all sorts of things, for ages, and it just goes in one ear and out the other. It's practically impossible to talk to an Honor Student. But what the hell, I'll give it the ol' college try once again.

"Right," says I to the daughter. "The principal of your school, the nosy bastard, apparently can't be arsed teaching you kids about marijuana, so we're supposed to talk to you about it."

The Spouse Sparrow looks up from his writing at this statement from me. I get the message. "Okay," I tell him, "So you don't want to talk to her. Can't blame you one bit. But I suppose that just leaves me, then."

I direct my attention back toward the teenager, who already has that standard glazed look in her eye, and is fiddling with her earring and twirling her hair.

"So, you remember that marijuana is also called 'pot,' right? And it's the dried leaves of a plant?" I start in, hopefully.

"Yeaaaahhhh."

"Before it's dried, it kind of looks like the leaf on the Canadian flag," the husband chimes in helpfully. The kid's face shows a spark of enlightenment. Spouse Sparrow is always good at finding something explanatory that's within the teenager's frame of reference.

Encouraged, I start in again. "Okay, well, here's the deal. Don't buy the loose stuff in the bag. That's called 'shake,' and unscrupulous salespeople cut that with oregano, to maximize their profits, because dumb kids like you can't tell the difference."

"Shake?"

"Yes. Shake is the really dried leaves that have fallen off the 'buds.' They lack resin, and it's the resin that holds the active ingredient of marijuana, so to speak."

"Buds?"

"Yes, the buds are the dried up leaf wads of the marijuana. It's the good stuff. Don't buy shake, it's the leaves that have fallen off the bud. And, even if the buds looks good in the bag, take it out and sort it, to be sure. Otherwise, you end up paying for seeds and stems, that the dealer included just to boost the weight."

"Seeds and stems are bad?"

"Yes, just like buying most produce, you don't want to pay for a bunch of seeds and stems. You want the actual product, not the leftovers."

The Fledgling Sparrow turns to the Spouse Sparrow and says, "Do I want to know how Mom knows all this?"

"Probably not," says the husband.

The Fledgling Sparrow returns her so-called "attention" to me. "Okaaaaayyyyy, anything else?"

"Yes. Don't buy pot, or I will personally kick your shit in. Especially, don't buy it from anyone at school. If they're selling at school, they're a narc. Surprisingly enough, real stoners don't spend a lot of time in school. Also, never smoke anything someone offers to you, just you alone, for free. There's sure to be something weird going on. They're trying to get in your pants, or it's laced, or something. If it was good shit, they'd be hoarding it."

"Yeah, okay. Is that all?"

"Yep, that should do it for now," I reply, feeling all kindly and motherly now.


It should be a fun time at the old homestead when they ask us parents to discuss IV drugs.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

They come for the beetle bum, but stay for the plump tits

Footie, you sneaky wanker, I know that was you!

"Big arses," indeed.

Spouse Sparrow hasn't been sharing pics of me, has he?! Jesus, he could have sent you the ones showing my big tits, to balance out the arse, at least.

Fat Sparrow

Spouse Sparrow talks about: Benders like Beckham

Football, Futbol or Soccer; no matter what you call it, it's 22 guys chasing each other in shorts, while kissing, hugging and patting each other's arses or pouting like a child if it doesn't go their way. What a load of wank.

I'm not much of a team player. Sports have never interested me. I'm not competitive enough, I guess. At school I was always last picked for a team and I never saw the need to exert myself to put a ball into any kind of net. As for watching sports, now that's what I call boring.

Being working class in Northern Ireland meant that football was very important, almost sacred. Never say "It's only a game" to die-hard fans during a World Cup match; you may not survive.

When I worked in a warehouse, it was a mostly male environment, so this led to footie being the main topic of discussion. Well, that and booking holidays to Spain. One of my fellow storemen had a son that played for one of the local teams, so this made him a celebrity by proxy. I usually ended up being the only one working most of the time, as with each new customer would come an opinion about football, or the workers that see each other everyday would have to have a frequent, vital, and long conversation about a match or a player. The most useless thing there is, is a sports fan that smokes. They never get anything done; by the time they have had a talk, a smoke, and gone for a shit (with the newspaper) it's time for their tea break.

Is there anything more ironic than a big fat f**ker wearing a sports shirt and talking about how so & so are lazy on the pitch?

Go on, ask me about the Glens and the Blues and I'll stab you in the eye with a pen.

My two-year-old son knows what soccer is, thanks to "The Backyardigans." He plays at being a "Soccer Monster" and goes around shouting "SOCCER!" So now he knows the sport and even uses the silly American name for it, great, nice one. The thing is that he can actually kick a ball; straight, either foot, at a stand still or a run. This is more than I can do. I can see myself running about kicking a ball in my old age, a thing I have managed to avoid in my youth. Coming from Northern Ireland a heart attack may be my only escape. I'll think about it as I fry my eggs and bread for breakfast tomorrow.

Spouse Sparrow

Monday, October 02, 2006

Teenagers are twats

The other day one of the Fledgling Sparrow's friends offered to take her to the movies, and they went to see "World Trade Center." I considered this to be a complete waste of time, as we all already knew the beginning, middle, and ending. Why pay $9.00 to see Nicolas Cage looking uglier than usual?

In her defense, she did offer "The Covenant" as an alternate choice. I told her to wise up. If I thought it was okay for her to watch a bunch of oversexed boys who think they are witches plot to kill people, she'd be allowed to surf MySpace. I don't think so.

She has to clear movies, TV, etc. through us, because we are strict. We're not fucking well raising a chavette, you know. Nowadays, movies that would have been rated "R" back when I was a kid get a PG-13 rating. Plus, the teenagers have gotten stupider. I had proof of this many years back, before I even had a teenager.

Many years ago, I was on my lunch break at my regular hide-out, a sushi place by my office. It was always fairly busy, but I was a regular, and I could get a huge, really good lunch for just slightly more than the price of a Big Mac meal. I could hide in my little corner, read a book, eat, drink green tea, and de-stress for an hour. They always had my table ready for me, and I never had to wait. One day, these two sales guys were sitting in the booth behind me, having a loud (well, not exactly loud, but have you ever met a quiet salesman?) conversation while they had their lunch. The main of it between the two of them went like this:


"Yeah, my weekend was shot to hell, what with working on the stats for the new account, and the wife dragging me off to see 'Titanic'."

"Really? You actually went to see that?"

"Well, you know, the wife wanted to. Doesn't matter what I want, you know."

"Yeah, I know how that one goes."

"Yeah, and we're in the theater, talking, you know, before the lights go down, about the how the movie's gonna compare to the real sinking of the Titanic, and how far off Cameron's gonna stray, and these two 13-year-old girls that are sitting in front of us turn around, glare at us, and say 'Thanks for ruining the ending for us!' "

"No, you've got to be shitting me!"

"Nope, they were serious. Didn't have a clue that it was based on an actual story. What the hell is wrong with kids these days?!"


Now, at about this point, I snorted green tea and wasabi out my nose, and then had to turn around and apologize for listening in on their conversation.

So, as you can see, teenagers are clearly twats. But at least my sinuses were clear for the rest of that day.

Fat Sparrow

Sunday, October 01, 2006

What the fuck?

Now, there has got to be something seriously wrong with the people in Saudi Arabia, as I keep getting people from there looking at my blog, after they Google things like "anal fuck" and "fuck." Do rich camel jockeys not have anything better to do?

God bless Site Meter, that lets little ol' nosy me analyze everything. I like to watch, heh heh heh.

I mean, what kind of idiot looks at my blog for things like these? I cannot even be arsed to put up real pictures! Furthermore, what kind of idiot looks at any blog for these things?! With all the websites with free porn, you're going to go searching blogs?

Why have we not bombed Saudi Arabia yet?

Fat Sparrow