Posts Tagged ‘dinner’

We were at the dinner table last night and the kids were talking… Minecraft.

Out of respect for CW I had asked several days ago for the new policy of not discussing it at the dinner table.

HackerBoy said “And if you [insert trivia here] then [something] goes [verb]!!!”

“Ok, guys, I asked that we not talk MC during dinner.  Let’s not use this as a topic for discussion.”

HackerBoy said in this oh-so-annoying way that chaps my nads, “Well, maybe we shouldn’t discuss anything.”

I gave him the baleful stare the men in my family are known for, the dreaded +3 Glare of Withering Scorn.

“You know what?  Perhaps you ought to take the lead on that.  I will probably fail miserably at it.  You can show us how it is done.  OK?”

WHOOOOOSH!  It went right over his head.  I looked up at CW, who was trying so hard not to chuckle that she was turning red.  I have a caustic side to me I am told.  Her look also said “Man, are you ever a creep sometimes.”  

What is so powerful about it is how closely I matched my old man and my brother.  Without even trying.

I was feeling like laughing, which seemed so uncharitable given what he said and how I replied that I got up from the table and laughed in the other room. 


New variable-focus glasses today.  My eyes are killing me but they are nice, even if I was running into doorframes.  My depth perception isn’t bad, it is my peripheral vision.  I favor smallish diameter frames (and I like pocket-watches and fountain pens, so sue me).


Cracked.com did a nice job of capturing some of firefighting forest fires but what they did not capture is the fact that when you are in a wild land unit and a fire is burning towards you as you put out spot fires the adrenaline does not stop, which probably explains why so many are addicted to adrenaline.  And, I suspect why so many firefighters drink, because sometimes it helps turn that off.

It also doesn’t drive home how exhausted you are after just a half day of running your ass off full-tilt.  With gear.  In 100+ degree weather.  In hilly dry terrain.  There is not enough water to quench that thirst.


Saw this a while back but it only came to mind today.

A toy dog that was not let out the night before had to urinate in a very bad way.


My moral flexibility is twitching.  Anyone who glues razor blades to playground equipment should be garrotted with his own twitching entrails.


In the continuing series of questioning the underlying BS of assumptions, I note this one today.

Hospitals plot the demise of insurance companies so… So they can take over the financing of your overpriced health-care!  Yes, rather than everyone know exactly what they pay for themselves and them alone, let’s make it “more affordable” by having everyone continue to play the gambling game!  

And we know that insurance of any kind is about minimizing payouts to maximize income.

WHY would we have reason to believe that it would somehow be better if hospitals run the tables rather than the mob?  It will still cost us the same.  I could rant for hours on this but I am on an iPad and it hurts to type that long.


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“Just another bite,” I thought aloud to myself for the benefit of my family.

Surely finishing what was before me was the best honor I could give in thanks for everything those before me have allowed me to have…

But… the body cried out… it screamed “Foul!  Foul, that which once nourished now overwhelms and destroys!  By Othar Tryggvassen, Gentleman Adventurer’s left nut, if you take one more bite, we will all die!”

“I can do this,” I murmured, more to convince myself than anyone around me.

This is bad.  This is so very very grim, but I can do this.

My soul shrieked “Have done with this!  It would be better had you beaten your pancreas to death with your spleen!†”

I chided my insides… Ok, now you’re just exaggerating.

My stomach growled at me, with pure hatred and no supplication.

With an agonized expression I looked at Cruel Wife.  “Huh.  Maybe not… maybe I can’t do this.”

The mashed potatoes had loosed some of their bounty upon my stuffing, which was in turn smothering my turkey.  This would be no mere bite, not even a Herculean bite.  It would be the work of many bites.

“I can’t do this,” I said around a huge mouthful of turkey, stuffing, and potatoes.  A rivulet of butter ran down through my beard, bringing with it promises of a portable snack later, as long as I didn’t wash my face.

Oh geez, I’m doing it.  I’m really doing it now.

My stomach did the only thing it could do, which was to push food through the scanners… errr… my digestive system faster than it could handle otherwise because the protesters… uh… food just kept coming.  And then it blew up.   I rapidly slipped into a coma, and died.

And still, I ate more.

And finished it despite being recently departed.

A feeble croak escaped my lips, piggy-backed on a titanic belch which did nothing to relieve the pressure,”I’m dead… uh… full.”

I got up from the table and staggered the 23 feet to my chair and haven’t moved since.

Mmmm.  That’s good butter.

†The idea of beating anything with your spleen was inspired by “Bolt”, a line from Rhino the Hamster.

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