That's What Ant Thinks!

Saturnalia, Christmas, Kwanzaa, etc.

2008-12-18T16:04:00.002-05:00

Morticia Adams, Lilly Munster,....Siouxsie

2008-12-05T15:40:00.004-05:00

I just hung up the phone here at my desk. It was my wife calling me. I have come to expect a great number of various topics to come up when she calls me at work anymore. Ever since she has been doing her internship as a Funeral Director, there have been many. Some of them, I must admit, I believe my imagined picture is far worse than the reality of what her anecdotes must have really been like to view. But I digress.
Today I answered the phone in the most normal of fashions and upon my final word looked at the caller ID on the phone to see it was Siouxsie. The first words out of her mouth were:

I Drove The Hearse!

I immediately felt very excited for her. She told me all about the experience in trying to adjust the seat correctly, and the "Hearse Cam" (which sounds like a rear view cam only with a whole lot more angles). The driving on the highway and then having to drive the Pastor home.
But what I just realized is that my wife, the woman I look at and think naughty thoughts of, the woman who will one day - most assuredly - end up going to a take your parents to school day, works with dead people and funerals. And I am totally okay with, and interested in these moments. The thought of the emotional bereaved, or the icky dead body, don't phase me. Except when she brings it up during a meal, or when she comes home smelling like Formalin. I guess I will just be the one to take our daughter in for bring your kids to work day. At least until she is a teenager and can brag about going to the funeral home morgue for the day!

Shane Ott Benefit Concert

2008-11-25T16:16:00.000-05:00

I Guess You Really Can Milk Anything With Nipples!

2007-05-15T14:49:00.000-04:00

Proof of God?

2007-05-15T14:40:00.000-04:00

2007-05-02T11:50:00.000-04:00

Christmas Post.....?

2006-12-21T16:04:00.000-05:00

As I spoke to the most beautiful woman in the world the other night, who I am lucky enough to be married to, I was made aware that I have neglected posting anything for quite while. Apparently she checks all the time. Below are some direct quotes and phrases uttered by someone I know. Names and associations have been left out for security reasons.

“How do you spell dull? As in dull moment.” D-o-a-a-l?

“I’m Gain for anything.”

“How do you spell smother?” S-u-m-v-e-r?

“I get the JUST of it.”

“I did a shlue of chores yesterday.”

My personal favorite from today:

“Well, you know there is this fruit called Marzipan. Yeah, it tastes like coconut.”

Conversation about a friend's (fictitious) girlfriend:

Glynn: “Well, he’s prolly getting more poontang than I am!!!”
ME: “You could probably get more than him if you tried.”
Glynn: “Well, I am still legally married, and I won’t do that.”
Me: “…..You know that poontang specifically refers to vagina, right?”
Glynn: “No it doesn’t! One of my girlfriends used to say that she was going to go out and get some poontang. She wasn’t gay!”
Me: “Did you ever see her with a steady boyfriend?”
Glynn: “No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
Me: “Is she married?”
Glynn: “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. When Mr. X and me used to get it on I used to say that I got some poontang over the weekend, and nobody ever looked at me funny for it.”
Me: “Maybe you’re right…I’m probably confused about what it means…”

This is but a small sampling of what I deal with. It is a true wonder of the world that she does not have to wear a drool bib, and velcro closure shoes by court order. I often wonder if she has to stop to ask directions every day when she pull out of her driveway.

So here's to you! I could certainly live without you...although it wouldn't be as entertaining.

To my lovely daughter. You have been the source and cause of so much joy in my life. I love you with all of my heart. You are able to take a total shit day and make it all better the minute I walk in the door and see your beaming smile! My favorite development of late is how you dropped the "F"-Bomb on me the other day. And the scary thing about it is that you were not even doing so by immediately parroting. You also happened to use it at the most appropriate time. We were wresting around and you accidentally (I would like to check with the third man in the ring on that one by the way.) headbutted me in the nose. I pulled back and said Aaaawwwh as I moaned out in pain. You then immediately placed your perfect little hand on the spot on your forehead that clashed with my proboscis, and said quite clearly "Futch". I called your mother to tell her the story and as I relayed the word you uttered, you looked up with a sparkling mouth full of teeth and said "Futch" in a very matter of fact tone.

I look forward to the coming days when the stress dies down and we are able to enjoy you and your actions during the holidays. You have played your mother and I like a Stradivarius, so I am quite confident that you will be getting every little item that you have eyed up along the way as well as a few that you may not have known existed. I love you so very much my little munchkin!

Moving on to the aforementioned most beautiful woman in the world. I know that you feel that these are just words, but I have said it many times. If you could only see yourself through my eyes for five minutes, you would truly understand. You make my everyday worth facing. You also have the ability to make the worst of days the best of days with a side eyed smile. You shoot down my corniest of jokes with mighty "Boos", but I know that there is a part of you that is laughing a little bit.

It has been six years full of everything from death to life. The wondrous throws of passion and drinking. Moments of "Are you looking that way?...Well keep looking that way!" Mornings when I was shocked you were able to drive home from The "Share" only to find out that you were thinking the same thing. Never really knowing how it happened. To the wonderful life of not drinking, let's schedule some time for that later this week, and discussing the latest episode of Sesame Street.

I honestly would not be the man I am today without you. You make me want to be a better me! We are far from perfect, but we are more perfect that any other couple I know of. I am grateful for everyday with you, even if it does not seem that way sometimes. We are not the easiest of people to deal with all the time, I know I can be a pain in the ass. Don't think for a minute that you are exempt. But at least we "Subscribe to our own brand of humor." That sometimes is enough for us.

You are my heart, my love, my life. Thank you for being you and loving me in all the ways that you do!

P.S. - I cannot wait to give you your Christmas present!!!

Office Terrorism

2006-04-21T15:18:00.000-04:00

Lost somewhere between lunch and getting home to dinner these drones make their way, en mass, to the pantry to microwave their little bags of popcorn goodness. But most of them failed "following directions 101" and do not read the bag where is says "Listen for popping to slow to 1-2 second between pops" indicating that their sack of hot munchies is properly prepared. They instead just hit the microwave industry's dirty little laugh button labeled "popcorn". This button has actually been known to make the machine 10 times as powerful as the owners manual would have you believe it could be. Yet, time after time, they saunter up and put their bag in, hit the popcorn button and walk away awaiting a beep. Which no doubt has to some degree burned their popcorn. Forcing me to smell it for the next hour or so. Anyone who works in an office knows the 3 o'clock carnival smell and how it can be downright annoying.

Today I have successfully exacted my revenge upon all of those around me guilty of ruining my afternoon day after day by making the office smell like a second rate circus everyday.

I struck back with bad intentions. I took a bag of popcorn from the communal snack area (trough) in my group. No wonder there is a weight problem in corporate offices. I then made my way to said pantry and hit the legendary popcorn button. And when it was done I hit that button again. I could smell the nastiness even before I opened the door. I took it out and walked around the center area of our floor. Making my way over to "The Mayor's" desk. I promptly opened the bag and placed it on his desk. It was nanoseconds before he realized what I was doing. Not that The Mayor necessarily deserves this treatment, but why not, his desk is in the center of the room and perfect placement for the popcorn of vengeance.

Within a minute or two all you could hear around the office was banter about the crispified corn and how repugnant the smell was. I even received and email from Mrs. Hitachi who sits at the exact opposite corner of the room from me complaining that she has had enough of people not knowing how to operate the microwave.

I have yet to respond to her email. I figure sending this should suffice. I feel that my point was made. People may be more inclined to actually try not to burn their corn in the future. I feel that I have closed this chapter of vindictive behavior regarding these offenders. As for the innocent, well, lets just call them collateral damage. Seems to work for the government.

Wing Bowl XIV "The Virgin Wing Bowl"

2006-02-06T10:48:00.000-05:00

I got to bed around one in the morning, and turned around to rise at about 3:30 a mere 2.5 hours later. Dan "The Man" was at my front door coming in from the pouring rain at 10 till four. The usually animated Dan "The Man" had a glazed look in his eyes, I almost went to check for a pulse... I grabbed my camera, binoculars, and a small soft side cooler full of Pacifico bottles.

We get on the road, and Dan preforms some of his trademark driving where both he and I have white knuckles. The rain is just pounding the road and car alike, causing traction and visibility to be greatly impaired. Once we hit the ramp to Route 76 (Schuylkill Expressway) I knew that things were likely to get more intense. I check the clock, 4:15. I crack open a bottle of Pacifico, and settle in. I relish in the fact that here is a Friday morning that I am beginning to drink at 4am, and not a Saturday morning where I am finishing up at 4am. After 2 beers, in about 2o minutes, I stop worrying about the roads or the pilot.

Upon arriving at the parking lot, there were tents, kegs, grills, and just about everything one would expect at a tailgate for any major sporting event. But lets be fair, the way that our Philly teams have been performing, this is a major sporting event.

It is now a bit after five in the morning. We have made our way inside the Wachovia Center, have purchased commemorative t-shirts, and have found somewhere suitable to plant ourselves. It took a few minutes, because I wanted to be close enough to the tables to get some good shots of Scott "Boss Hog" Zimmerman in action.

The contestants started making their way in. Each contestant made a float and had an entourage. It took quite a while for 27 groups to fully make their way in and around the outside edge of a hockey rink. Scott came in on a white Cadillac that he and his buddies made, full with working lights, and bullhorns on the hood. He ended up winning the float building aspect of the day's competition, and justly so.

Dan "The Man" went down to make a deposit in the men's room and asked me if I wanted anything. I said screw it, grab me another beer and some wings if they've got 'em, if not I'll take some nachos!" Dan returns with a towering tray of nachos with cheese, salsa, and pickled jalapenos. I have to admit that after as much beer as I had at that hour in the morning, the nachos did not sound too far from normal for 5:45 am. But to my surprise and dismay, they did not start selling beer until 7am!!!! And that sales of beer would end sharply at 8:30! What surprised me most about this was that, I have heard from more than a couple people, they sell more beer at the Wachovia Center for Wing Bowls than they do for any sporting event all year long. Not hard to believe when you take into consideration the fact that you are bound to have a decent percentage of regular fans at a hockey or basketball game consisting of family or couples, and that all of the people who show up for Wing Bowl are the kind of people who got up early to watch guys eat wings...it's the time frame that is surprising.

There was scheduled to be all 27 contestants competing in a 14 minute eating round, and then trimmed down to 10 contestants in a second 14 minute eating round, trimmed down to five contestants in a 2 minute "eat out". Sorry, couldn't help myself.

All of the contestants are sitting and waiting. They put the first plates down and they are off. It was amusing to watch in general, and Scott "Boss Hog" Zimmerman kept a decent pace. The excitement of the event was watching a 67 year old guy nicknamed "The Locust" eat his wings. He had an effective, albeit disgusting, method to his madness. He would almost rotate the wing against his teeth at almost lightning speed and whatever made its way into his mouth did, and whatever fell to the plate he retrieved by hand and stuffed into his mouth. He was definitely the crowd favorite, every time he appeared on the big screen everyone would roar.

The first round concluded and Scott "Boss Hog" Zimmerman had not made the cut. I later found out that he was not upset, but rather relieved that he did not make it. He was edged out by ONE WING by the guy sitting next to him "Black Death".

The second round was under way and the crowd was really into it now with their favorites chosen and rooting, hooting, and hollering in abundance. With about 5 minutes left in the second eating round one of the guys, I can't figure out what his name was, let the floodgate loose. He projectile vomited a very respectable, if not amazing, amount of orange colored goo. It came out in such volume and force that it created a perfect 90-degree arc, and then hit the table in front of him, bouncing into another 45 degree arc. It was played large, loud, and proud for all of our viewing pleasure on the big screen.

The eating continued.

As the round ended there were still contestants with mouths full of chicken meat. I found out that once the round is over, you had to put down the wings, but you must swallow whatever is in your mouth at that time. Dr. Slob (as indicated by the word slob cut into his facial hair) took one of those deep breaths that I have seen a thousand times from working in bars, and he had that "Thousand yard stare". Once the cameraman noticed what some of us with binoculars had seen he quickly panned to him showing us the look on his face. The question was not if he would yak, but more when. Seconds later the video of the first guy I mentioned shows up, being played in forward and reverse. It was gross enough to see it come out, but to see it in reverse watching him "suck it back in" was stomach turning to some of us who weren't down there. The crowd was laughing as my hero, the guy at the helm of the video controls, runs it back and forth until Dr. Slob looks up. Once he got a good look at the "sucking it back up" version, he quickly turned backwards and lost it in a trashcan. Awesome!

We were now down to the final five. It was neck and neck between a guy by the name of Joey Chestnut (his real last name) and The Locust. It was only a two-minute round and relatively uneventful with the exception of increased speed. Chestnut edged out The Locust, by a very small margin. The total number eaten by Chestnut was 174. That number actually broke the previous record.

We later found out that Chestnut had found a loophole, or snuck through. He is actually a professional eater and a member of the IFOCE ranked number three. His profile here.

We left the Wachovia Center quickly after the crowning, and before the Wingette competition. Got back into the car, polished off the rest of the beers, got breakfast, and went home.

I later talked to Scott "Boss Hog" Zimmerman while I was shopping for groceries with my wife and daughter. Funny thing was that he called me right as I was stopped in front of the Giant Supermarket Wing Bar. A selection of room temperature wings that look like complete dog crap. As we spoke I had many questions. But given my location and his lethargy I asked but one...."How were the wings?"

They were not even buffalo style or hot wings; they were honey barbecue wings from some place in New Jersey. So these nasty wings were honey barbecue and shipped over from Jersey?!? That is something that is gross in itself. He told me that if they were actually hot wings it would have been easier. Even the guy who won, Joey Chestnut, was saying how god-awful they were. But when the prizes are fame, and fortune to the tune of a new car, a $6,000 ring, and a couple thousand dollar medallion, along with numerous side spiffs, you could push through and do what had to be done.

I figure that if Scott could get in by chugging Bleu Cheese dressing, and one of the other guys got in by eating 3 cheese steaks in 6 minutes, and another guy could make the cut by eating a pound of cookie dough to qualify for the big show, so can I.

Next year this time, be on the lookout for this post being all about how I won Wing Bowl 15. Virgin Wing Bowl II, Electric Boogaloo!

Here are the pictures of the events listed above - Wing Bowl XIV

The Girl Scouts Are Satan's Minions!

2006-01-19T12:42:00.000-05:00

The Girl Scouts of America are to blame for this country's weight problem. Here is how I see it:

January 1st every year, while nursing a hopefully well earned and wicked hangover, the majority of people start to itemize the things in their life that they should be able to change for the better. Aside from, stop being such an asshole, a six pack a day should do me just fine, and I will call my (mother, father, sister, brother, etc.) more than once every couple of months, the top of most American's list is to lose weight. The battle of the scales is on just about everyone's mind, whether you have 5 annoying pounds (in which case you just piss me off) or dozens upon dozens to shed. And coming out of the gate, a lot of people are pretty determined to drop those pounds. We sign up for diet plans or gym memberships. We start a routine and have a generally positive outlook on the prospects of looking svelte by summertime, even if that is summer 2007 we are thinking of. In any case there is a positive vibe. It is well known that about by January 30th or 31st things fall to shit for a lot of people. Their motivation is dwindling, they are getting sick of the "diet foods" selection and options. But what is worse than that and has gone unnoticed by me up until today is that there is a major event that happens to coincide with the end of January. Girl Scout Cookies go on sale.

Now if you happen to be blessed with working in a large office environment like myself, you are no doubt inundated, nay, pressured to "support" your co-worker friend's daughter in her quest to sell the most cookies. And god forbid you buy from one person and not the other friend of yours in the office risking at least a years worth of bullshit subtle hostility, yes over some cookies no less. So now, most of us aside from liking them, are at a pressured point that we will purchase probably two boxes in the office. People actually will put them out on their desks as if to say "Here have a cookie, I don't really want to be eating all of these by my self." Yeah, right. But now we have had our taste for blood teased, so to speak.

Within the next few weeks you will not be able to go to the mall, get gas for your car, go to WaWa, or even answer your door without being asked to purchase some Girl Scout Cookies. The first two purchases were strictly out of obligatory support, so people continue to think "I am stronger than the crack and heroin that they hide in these cookies, I am sticking to my diet." Then you run into that little doll-faced girl outside of the WaWa begging you to support her cause as she shivers in 28 degree winter weather. (Here is their selling guide book of do's and don'ts) So you give in once again, but now the cookies are on their way back to the house, where you can't pawn them off on the general population around you. And have you ever in your life thrown out a box of Girl Scout cookies, ever?

It is here when the time released drugs that the Girl Scouts of America baked into their cookies activate. Much like the Naked Gun Movie which found Lt. Frank Drebin under mind control on his way to kill the Queen of England the American public is under their control to purchase and consume their favorite Girl Scout cookies, or even try the new flavors for this year.

Yes, a few weeks ago the country was on a road toward physical fitness which would have health and beauty benfits galore. Now, the evil Girl Scouts have dragged our sorry asses down a treacherous path toward weight gain. I will even go so far as to say that once a person is armed with their own superfluous funds in life that they fall into this trend, the only weight that we gain each year is from Girl Scout Cookies. Each year, a few more boxes, each year a few more pounds.

There Is No God But George Clinton, and Ice Cube Is His Prophet.

2006-01-11T11:58:00.000-05:00

Let me explain. I was boiling down life to the very basics in my head yesterday. I thought about how I would be truly happy in this world if all I had was my beautiful wife. I then went on a mental tangent that let me to seeing us living in a tent somewhere, living camper style, fishing and hunting whatever small mammals I was cunning enough to capture, kill, and cook. But then the simplistic dream evaporated as I remembered how happy my wife was that I went out and picked up some new M.A.C. cosmetics for her the other day. So I figured, all I need is her, and money. That rang a familiar bell from the past, I have heard that somewhere before..."Life ain't nothing but bitches and money" - Ice Cube. Forgiving the fact that modern day slang is usually derogatory towards women this seemed to fit.

I decided to share my daily thought in its simplest form with a very good friend of mine. I stated that Ice Cube is a prophet and attached the quote above. From there I typed that there is no god but ____ and Ice Cube is his prophet. Playing on the Muslim version "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet." To which he quickly replied George Clinton. My buddy said he came to mind quickly, mainly due to his transcendental ways. I then took another mental run, this time on George Clinton (not to exclude the most fantastic P-Funk, but we are on the hunt for a single deity). He once sang "One nation under a groove, gettin' down just for the funk of it." and the metaphoric "Why must I feel like that, why must I chase the cat, nuthin' but the dog in me." And I realized that he not only knows what he wants but also knows that sometimes there is no reason for his wants, and sometimes there are reasons that just are, and are completely out of his control. Yes, these are the words of a wise man. One who I would follow. I always liked George Clinton, but really got into him during the summer of 1994 at Lollapalooza when he was one of the headliners. Shortly after the so-so album, but wonderfully titled, "Hey man - smell my finger."

Once I really meshed the two together, George Clinton and Ice Cube...the funny statement gained a bit of gravity and more humor.

This morning I came back into work and sent my buddy an IM telling him that I had just finished my morning prayer facing West toward Compton. To where the good word came down to Ice Cube from on high (the mother ship), while high, at the Fat Burger on the corner of Crenshaw and Wilshire at two in the morning. Those of you familiar with the best Cube song ever made will appreciate that. We decided that the pilgrimage to the holy site of the Fat Burger should be taken on July 22nd, which is G. Clinton's date of birth. And this will become know as the Hizz-ajj. On said day, on the sacred site we will ingest the holiest of beverages in honor of their greatness and love for us. The Pimmps Cup, a play on a great drink found here. Since a Pimmps Cup is gin based and made with juice, we figured that we were keeping it real enough to not piss off gangstas. That is about as far as we got with it but we will be cultivating this new religion more and more as the days go on. I will be sure to keep you posted.

Until then, Clintonhu Ackbar, my brothers and sisters!

My Wife & The Knife

2005-12-20T15:26:00.000-05:00

Welcome to The Ant Hill, a place where I will drone on about the everyday bullshit that I encounter and go through. I will do my best to keep this regularly updated.

For my fist post I will entertain you all with a story that I hope is not a recurring theme. Just about, no wait I do mean EVERY, year I end up in the emergency room for something stupid. Outside of the usual broken hand/wrist from silly, but fun to recall, altercations, they are pretty ridiculous. Such as the time that I had an infected hang nail that was causing me some distress due to the pressure of the puss and gore contained within. I decided to lance the sucker myself with a staple, not sterilized even though this was during a time when I still smoked cigarettes and was sure to have a lighter on me. After lancing and relieving the pressure I noticed a pretty red line running from my finger up my arm. Once that pain became quite intense, my highly intelligent wife suggested I go to the beloved ER. It was there that they informed my that had I let the pretty red line make it's way too much higher towards my heart, I would have been in real trouble. But this is all background info really. I have made it through a whole year, finally without going to the ER. But the year is not quite over I guess and may have just severely jinxed myself.

Last night, Siouxsie was to attend quite a large cookie swap with about 15 friends, at Jaime's house. Mike and I were going to get tanked and see Kong. Needless to say with that many people attending this thing there were quite a number of batches to be made of Siouxsie's signature "Supreme Bars". I had made many return trips to Redner's supermarket to obtain things that we had forgotten and overlooked. Such as the disposable 9 X 13 inch baking pans. I mention these because they play a key role in the events that transpired.

The batches had been made and were properly cooling outside on the table of the back porch. Our daughter Sophia just woke up, and was fed. Siouxsie had showered; I was dressed and ready to go. I told Siouxsie that I was going out to start both of our cars. After returning from the bitter cold I see Siouxsie doing what I assume closely resembles an island rain/fire/mating dance. I opened the door and all she could get out was I cut myself and jammed her thumb in her mouth. We went over to the sink to rinse it and see how bad it was. I knew at first glance, given my track record, that this required the work of a medical seamstress. But she insisted upon calling her mother, whose medical advice outside of the delivery room is based on 1950's textbooks, and she was on her way over to our house.

7:30-ish and off they were to the grand waiting room of the Phoenixville Hospital. Where they would sit for the next three hours before even being escorted back to the treatment area. Bucking their spot in the line of priority were, a 2-year-old kid who had swallowed a nail on the advice of his older brother, and another little boy who had fallen off the bed and needed a whole mess of staples in his noggin. Siouxsie was worked on by a student, and was alarmed at how much noise Siouxsie made when she was given multiple needles in the wound to numb the nerves so they could stitch her up. Seven stitches altogether. Not quite as good as the story of how she cut her wrist while trying to slice a frozen 'everything' bagel, and have the neighbor who she went to believe that she tried to kill herself (even with the presence of poppy seeds and garlic in the gash). But that is another story altogether!