Cold enough for you?

Blast, it’s cold outside! It’s colder than a witch’s mammary gland! When that frigid air hits your lungs, it feels like Reggie Jackson taking his 35oz. Louisville Slugger to your ribs! It ain’t natural!

It’s so cold out, it makes me want to curl up under a blanket and watch CBS’s crime procedural Cold Case, starring that ashen-faced lady from my nightmares.

Because of the frozen temps here, my car was running at perhaps 60% efficiency this morning. It was like at the end of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, when the Enterprise is trying to get away from the Genesis project explosion but they don’t have warp power until Spock sacrifices his life for the good of the crew. That’s exactly what it was like as I drove through Brooklyn Center.

I hate these Minnesota Januaries. Everything is cold and depressing and my sullen misery only grows deeper with each drunken pelvic thrust from New Orleans Saints fans.

Something’s got to be done about this! Who’s up for a suicide pact culminating in a blazing bloodbath in a Culvers parking lot?

Gather around, children of all ethnicities! Come and see the wonderful gift of North Minneapolis!

It’s a bullet hole in our garage!

Yes, that’s right! On Saturday night, the North Minneapolis Fairy fired a gun near our home and teens (presumably wearing oversized white t-shirts and black do-rags underneath their parkas and stocking caps) went scattering away from the loud party they were attending. It was zany! Then the police came with their sirens and flashing lights and shiny boots and saved the day!

Sunday morning, I saw the bullet hole in my garage! Hooray!

Sunday evening, Brett Favre put a metaphorical bullet into my guts! Everything was terrible on Sunday!

Now children, if all of you say your prayers and eat your vitamins, maybe one of the North Minneapolis Fairies will shoot a bullet into your house or garage too! Then your family will be endangered and anxiety-ridden and the resale value of your property will magically diminish! Perhaps a Hennepin County judge will be lenient on the North Minneapolis Fairy and send him back with his other friends in his enchanted community! This is called the circle of life, and it is what Elton John sang so beautifully about in the mid-90s.

Now all of you children, listen closely. I want you to run around the neighborhood and see if you can find the North Minneapolis Fairy who shot a bullet into my garage. If you spot him, come back as fast as you can and tell me where he is! Then I will run him over with my Hyundai Sonata!

Three cheers for cold-blooded vengeance!

Back in 2004, I wrote a smug little post about Brett Favre having tossed up an idiotic interception at crunch time in the playoffs.

In 2008, I took more digs after it appeared that another foolish interception in a Packers loss in overtime of the NFC Championship game would be his last throw as an NFL quarterback.

Then tonight, with 19 seconds to play in a tie game and the ball on the Saints 38 yard line. Favre rolled out to the right, and instead of taking the 5 or 6 yards of open field, he threw a stupid pass back into the middle of the field to hand the ball and the momentum back to the Saints. On a night when the Vikings had dominated every statistical category except the all-important turnovers, their two biggest players couldn’t carry their water, and all my years of mockery washed back over me like a tidal wave of urine from drunken Wisconsinites.

Now I lay prone, soaked in bitter irony and long-prophecied sorrow. I will fight my way through this unhappy night and arise tomorrow a new, stronger man. Though this blog’s bad karma hath wrought a severe punishment upon Vikings fans, I will continue to carry on writing distasteful blog entries that nobody enjoys reading. I am oblivious to the lessons of defeat, much like the liberal wing of the Democratic party.

So tonight, I say, “See you in hell, Brett Favre. I no longer hate you, but neither shall I ever again snuggle into your whiskery affections.”

Last night I was reading a book of nursery rhymes to Oliver before putting him to bed. This has become something that I enjoy tremendously, not so much for the father-son bonding, but for the fact that so many of our beloved nursery rhymes are actually very, very disturbing.

Here’s a favorite that I read to him three times in a row because I couldn’t quite get over what I was reading:

Goosey goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.

There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.

Yes. Justice.

Certainly all of us agree that the protagonist in this tale took the proper, prudent course of action. He came upon an elderly man and ordered him to pray. The man refused. The old man was then tossed down the stairs to his death. John Calvin himself couldn’t have done any better.

I did a bit of research about this and it turns out it dates back to the days when Oliver Cromwell and his boys were driving the Catholics out of England (the old man in question didn’t say his prayers in English, he said them in Latin like a common, cross-eyed papist).

No matter. The fact that this story is printed in children’s books in 2010 without context is amusing enough for me. For now, I will put my little Oliver Cromwelle to bed with a lovely rhyme about intolerance and violence to the elderly.

Best dad ever? It’s too early to say.

(But I’m probably in the conversation.)

Hey look! Its a goose!

Are you a silly goose? Yes you are a silly goose! You waddle and frolic in the sunshine puddles! You love to eat bread don’t you, you silly goose? All you ever do is eat bread and squawk and befriend children of all colors!

I love you, goose!

Woah, calm down, goose! Take a chill pill!

Let’s calm down and discuss this rationally, man to goose. I can see you’re upset, and I’m seeing a lot more of your disgusting goose tongue than I ever want to see again. Now that I’ve seen that, I can imagine what it would be like to make out with Satan.

Now take a deep breath and tell me what it is that you’re mad about.

Now you’re chasing me! Leave me alone, goose! I don’t deserve this goose grief!

You have suprised me with your nimble footspeed over this short distance, goose! I’m not getting any separation! That’s the last time I underestimate an angry goose!

I hate you, goose bastard!

Hey, goose! Leave that man alone! He worked hard today and he deserves a restful nap here on the grass in this park free of your nudging goosenags.

I am going to come back here tomorrow and shoot you, goose. I’m going to blast your goose face away. I have soured on you.

I hope you get fondled by a hobo tonight, goose. You’ve got it coming.

On this most glorious Sunday morning, Bridgette and I returned from our workout to find the most majestic, awesome icicle ever beheld by human eyes hanging from our very own garage.

Estimated by scientists to measure more than 15 feet in length and weigh 75 pounds, this icicle embodied all that is mighty and pure about the USA. Like George Washington’s chiseled jaw, Rutherford Hayes’ immaculately-groomed beard, and Lyndon Johnson’s fertile groin, this icicle projected America’s rugged strength and dignity that has justly subjugated the planet earth. That it should sprout up here in North Minneapolis is certainly divine affirmation of mayor Rybak’s half-million dollar initiative to install designer water fountains across the city. In fact, I would posit that this icicle is a herald of Rybak’s inerrancy.

Emboldened by patriotic fervor and sub-zero windchills, I approached the gleaming icicle. With trembling fingers and moistened lips, I reached for it and removed it from my garage with a mighty “CRACK!” At that moment, thunder rolled across the heavens and Hugo Chavez’s living room curtains tore in two.

Resplendent in my workout gear and disheveled hair, I posed with the excalibur of icicles and felt its shimmering American power pulsate through my body like an electrical charge. I was suddenly vivid and alive. It was as if was imbued with the spirit of Teddy Roosevelt after 12 cups of coffee. Mine eyes had seen the glory of the coming of the Lord! Glory, hallelujah!

Then Bridgette made me come inside and fold laundry.