Dear Santa, I just want peace on earth this Christmas. Oh, and a Playstation 3

Yesterday, I read some kids' letters to Santa that were published in a small town Texas newspaper. I don't know anyone who can produce better comedy than kids. Check out this letter (any apparent typos/misspellings are the work of this kid):

"Dear Santa, Hello How are You? today and what I want like a forir to the and I like the I like has a grat chresma and or randes I to go in the like has. and the ask wat you do in the nothpole"

Here's another good one:

"Dear Santa, this is Ethan the one who asked for a dirtbike ever since he was five years old. I know that you probly don't know what a dirtbike is. I will tell you soon. Will you please listin why I whant a dirtbike. Two years ago a mounth before Christmas my uncle promised that I will get one. Then a year later he asked my grandma for some mony. Then ensted of bying me a dirtbike he bought something else. Did you know that my old teatcher told a story about you. She sad tha all her doors had doble loks and that nobydy could get in so it was santa clas. Let me tell what a dirtbike is. It is kind of like a bike but it takes gas and has a moter. It also takes fuel. I expeshly a lot faster. So will you please get me a dirtbike that will be rill thankful of you. I will do eny thing I'll even come and help you make toys. Thank you for listning to my story"

This letter was also unsigned. I can't fight the feeling that the "something else" this kid's uncle bought with grandma's money was cigarettes. Who knows?

This last one is my favorite:

"Dear Santa, how is the eers? I hope there werm. I do not rilly nowe if I have bin that good this year. In the latr you sent to me you sed I was good. I don't rilly know it thats troo. I just hope I am. Your friend, Kaitlyn

Finally, a kid who doesn't try to sugar coat everything for Santa. I think her battle with her conscience merits a visit from the Big Man. While all the other kids talk about how good they've been, citing such accomplishments as "I only hit my sister a couple of times this year" as grounds for getting a Playstation 3, this girl is just hoping she's going to make the cut and avoid a lump of coal. I hope she gets what she wants for Christmas.

Say, that reminds me--Since there's a chance I may not post again before Monday, I hope you and yours have a great Christmas, and that you get everything you were hoping for. Except that Playstation 3. Man, you're greedy.

Don't Mess With Texas. Unless You Want To.

I'm not from Texas. My wife is, though, which explains why I live here. When we moved here, I had a lot of preconceived notions about Texas. Most of them had a direct correlation with Jeff Foxworthy jokes, but after being here for almost a year and a half, I've realized that my stereotypes about Texans only apply to a pretty small percentage of people.

I guess most of my notions about Texas have been disproved. My only problem now with this state is the huge pro-Texas propaganda machine. With all the pro-Texas bumper stickers around here, you'd think that the state was running for office or something. Here are some quotes from bumper stickers I've seen on cars here:

"Don't mess with Texas"
"I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as soon as I could"
"Native Texan"
"If Mexico is so great, then why are you still here?"
"God bless Texas"

Hey, I'm all for regional pride and whatever. Being from Washington, I'm still a Seahawks fan. I love the Sonics, even though they are having a crappy season. I may be wrong, but I just can't fight the feeling that the reason for all this propaganda is that Texans have to continually try to convince themselves that Texas (as a state) doesn't suck.

A year and a half ago, I would have told you I hate living in Texas. But I've come to realize that what makes an area a good place to live is the people. I still am not a big fan of the heat, or the shortage of naturally beautiful scenery, but people here, like everywhere else I've lived, have been really nice. I like living in Texas, but I wouldn't mind if people would tone it down a little bit. I'd like to see some bumper stickers like this on cars:

"I live in Texas and don't plan on moving anytime soon. It ain't half bad."
"Texas: it's no Delaware, but I still like it."
"God Bless the USA, of which Texas is a part."
"I wasn't born here, but I got here as soon as I found out how cheap real estate was."

What Crappy Christmas Gift Are You?

I was just looking over my last three (incidentally also my first three) posts, and noticed a common thread. My goal in having a blog was to take a crack at some humor writing. I realized that, based on my first three posts, a person who didn't know me would think that I am only amused by situations that deal with gross substances that build up in, or are expelled from, bodily orifices.

Don't get me wrong--I mean, those things are funny. Doy. I just thought I might expand my horizons by exploring other funny stuff. Tonight I googled the phrase "crappy Christmas gifts". I found a site that had a little personality quiz entitled "What Crappy Christmas Gift Are You?" I took it because I have a degree in psychology, which means 1) I know a lot of stuff that is good for answering Trivial Pursuit questions, but that is not very applicable in a little thing that I like to call "the real world", and 2) I know that all tests like this are valid and accurate.

According to the survey, the crappy gift that I am most like is socks. Apparently, I'm "Cozy and warm... but easily lost. [I] make a good puppet." I don't know what's so crappy about getting socks for Christmas. I mean, I remeber when I was ten years old, I wanted some He-Man toys for Christmas. I kept telling my parents how badly I wanted He-Man and his mighty steed, Battlecat for Christmas (as a side note, if any of you can tell me what Battlecat's name was in his down time--that is, when he wasn't the mighty Battlecat--there may be a crappy Christmas gift in store for you).

I snooped around my parents' bedroom for weeks and finally found them a few days before Christmas. I would sneak into my parents' room when I thought no one would see me snooping, and just stare at the motherlode: He-Man and Battlecat in all their glory. I dreamed of Christmas Day, when I would be able to thwart the evil plots of Skeletor and Panthor, his sinister sidekick.

As it turned out though, I think I played with He-Man and Battlecat for about a week, and then moved on to bigger and better things. Socks would have provided a lot more bang for my parents' buck. Call it an ego defense mechanism if you will, but I don't think socks are a crappy gift at all. My wife has hinted around about a few things she would like for Christmas, but I think that after the dust settles and the smoke clears, she'll be glad that I got her socks. Who knows, I might even splurge and get the six-pack.

Phrases You Hope You Never Hear from Your Mom

Today, as my parents, my wife, my son, and I were coming home from the local grocer, I heard my wife, who was in the back seat sitting next to our 16-month-old son, say, "Come here, buddy. I want to smell your butt." I thought, "Now there's something I'm glad I never heard my mom say." What she meant (I hope) was, "Come here, buddy. I need to determine whether or not you've had a recent bowel movement that will necessitate a change of your diaper."

It just struck me as funny when she said it, since I had been talking to my mom, and just happened to hear this little snippet from the back seat. Anyway, I thought of a few more phrases I'm glad I never heard my mom say. Here's a sampling:

"Would you ask your date if she'd mind filing down my bunions?"

"I need some help straightening up the meth lab this afternoon."

"What!? You threw the jar away? I've been saving those boogers for 23 years!"

and my personal favorite,

"You take that diaper off your head, and you put it back on your sister!"

Anyway, I'm just glad that my mom was a good, non-weird mom, and that my wife is such a good, non-weird mom to my son, despite any comments she may have made that may (or may not) have been taken out of context by yours truly. Thanks, ladies!

...Consider Me Miles Davis

If having your son pee on your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis.

Every time I give my sixteen-month-old son a bath, there is a specific protocol that I follow. Mostly this just involves pee-proofing the area that will be used to put on his diaper and what-not after the bath. Most people know baby boys are notorious for having "accidents" at non-diaper-wearing moments. Let's just say that when I hear someone talking about the "golden arches", I don't think of McDonald's anymore, if you get my drift (nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Cue camera shot of Chris Farley saying, "Eh? EH!??").

Anyway, a part of my son's post-bath routine is that, after I've taken him out of the bath and wrapped him up in a towel, he likes to watch as I roll up the little suction-cuppy non-slip bath mat thingy. For some reason he always laughs as I'm rolling it up. Every time. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe he's retarded or something, because that just doesn't seem normal to me. I'm just kidding. My kid is a genius, as you can see from the picture below. Already knows his ABC's. It's more likely that the joke's on me and he thinks I'm retarded.


So I took my kid out of the tub, wrapped him in his towel, and placed him on my lap as I sat on the side of the tub to roll up the aforementioned bath mat. As always, he giggled. This time, however, I felt an unfamiliar warm sensation on my thigh as he laughed. As I mumbled the words "oh, crap," I simultaneously wondered if my son had laughed at the rolling of the bath mat, or if he was really just laughing at the fact that he had just urinated on my leg. I'd personally rather assume that he hasn't developed the cognitive abilities required to mock me yet.

To show my son how much I love him, I my maintained my composure and attended to his needs, not changing my "saturated" pants until he was diapered and dressed, and not until after I ate dinner and read a book for an hour or so. I'm just kidding. I changed my pants and washed off my leg with a baby wipe (if they're good enough for him, they're good enough for me) right after I got the kid in his jammies.

Anyway, I was on the brink of annoyance at this whole episode, but then it just kind of made me laugh. I guess only your own child could pee on you and have you laughing about it. Hey, isn't that the punch line of a joke?

That's Plaque-tastic!

Ok, I'll admit that when it comes to flossing my teeth, my habits are a bit "inconsistent". I don't floss every day. If it counts for anything, I do say to myself, "Self, you should floss tonight." more or less every night before I go to bed. Unfortunately my self usually gives some smart reply like, "Oh, no thanks. I'd rather read online articles about BYU football." Most of you are probably saying "Well, Duhhhh!" And I agree--BYU football clearly should take precedence over flossing. But flossing should be a more important part of my life. Anyway, something happened to me tonight that may forever change my views on flossing.

First, though, I think it needs to be said that I hate flossing. Or at least I hate flossing my molars. There's something unnatural, awkward, and just kind of gross about sticking both hands as far back into your mouth as they can go. I'm not sure whether it's the thought of any bacteria that might still be on my thouroughly washed hands getting into my mouth, or the thought of all the bacteria in my just-brushed mouth getting all over my fingers that gets to me. Really, though, I subscribe to the "what I can't see can't hurt me" philosophy of life. Maybe It's just a fool's paradise, but beyond a conscientiously applied regimen of teeth-brushing, hand-washing, and bathing (and a few other "unmentionable" hygienic practices), I don't worry too much about bacteria and microbes and what-not. That's the stuff of forensic scientists, doctors, and mothers-in-law.

Tonight, though, I was at the local Mass Merchandiser Mart looking for a new toothbrush (there are so many choices these days) when my wife said "I wonder if we'd floss more if we had these flossing sticks". I wandered down the aisle to see what exactly she meant by "flossing sticks". I had tried some crappy flossing product before, and hated it. However, I saw a product that tickled my fancy: Plackers® Dental Flossers.



















The dorky product name alone probably would have been enough to convince me to shell out $2.44 of my hard-earned money for the flossers, but when I saw that the "Hi-Performance Tuffloss®" was made with "the same fiber used to make bulletproof vests", I felt almost obligated to buy them. There's a certain comfort to be had in knowing that, if worse comes to worse, I can weave the fibers from my 75 Plackers® into a bulletproof vest. You can't be too careful these days. Especially with them dang ol' (I can say that because I live in Texas) Democrats in power.

As you can imagine, I was excited to get home from Mass Merchandiser Mart to try one of my new Plackers® flossers. It was pretty easy to floss my front teeth, but I couldn't seem to get my Placker® at the right angle to get to my molars. I still had to reach into my mouth, holding the head of my Placker® between my thumb and forefinger. That's when I realized that it's not the inconvenience of flossing, or the microorganism factor that keeps me from wanting to floss more regularly. OK, it's also the inconvenience factor--but I also really hate the slimy feeling of the saliva-coated floss when I'm done.













I was a little disappointed that I still had to reach into my mouth with my fingers, and was beginning to wonder if I had spent my $2.44 plus tax in vain. But then I noticed after I finished flossing that I had unwittingly missed the suggestion on the back of the package that I should "try bending the handle or stimulator pick to access back teeth more easily". What will the friendly folks at Plackers® think of next? And what the heck is a stimulator pick, anyway? I guess I'll find out tomorrow if bending this mysterious "stimulator pick" really works, or if it's just a pipe dream, like BYU's football team playing in a BCS bowl game.