You can all rest easier, because I’m now CPR certified.

I had my class on Monday night, and I can now shout, “You, call 911!” with the best of them. I was a bit disappointed with the instruction, however. While I appreciated them showing us how to administer chest compressions, use a defibrillator, and give rescue breaths, they never showed us how to do so with passion. We practiced the techniques in such a sterile way, that one would have thought we were resuscitating a newborn android. They never demonstrated how to deliver the chest compressions in a frenzy while allowing tears to well up in our eyes. They never showed us how to scream, “Breathe, dammit! BREATHE!!!” “You’ve got too much life left in you!” “You’re too damn stubborn to die!”

Regrettably, this particular CPR class didn’t teach us any of the important stuff that makes for some of our finest action moments in cinematic history. They never showed us how to give up hope momentarily before delivering a final blow to the chest out of frustration that ironically starts the heart of our loved one. We never learned how to jump from a galloping horse to a train. We weren’t taught how to leap from an exploding helicoptor. We weren’t even shown how to pensively pull a half-charred photo of our parents out of the ruins of a housefire. In short, we didn’t learn jack-shit about how to save somebody’s life in an emotionally moving way. It was all this droning horsecrap about “calling 911″, and “checking their pulse”. Bo-ring. If I needed a clinical experience, I would have gone to the class on how to administer an illegal, unregulated proctal exam.

Anyway, long story short, if any of you ever feel like choking on something, come on over to my house and I’ll be happy to hook you up with some sweet abdominal thrusts.

Funny story -

So back in September, aught ‘2, I was doing a load of laundry at my parents house. A few minutes after I had started the washer, I panicked and realized that I had left my cell phone in my pants pocket. By the time I retrieved it, it was soaked and would no longer turn on. We thought that we could perhaps dry it out in the sun, so we took it apart and layed it on the picnic table out back, but the day remained cold and overcast - it wasn’t going to dry out anytime soon. Hanging my head in sorrow, I went back inside and layed down for a nap on the couch.

My father, college-educated engineer that he is, had a profound idea. If the sun wasn’t out to dry the phone out, perhaps a few minutes in the oven at a low temperature might do the trick! Whether this idea was ingenious or idiotic I leave for you to decide, but he proceeded to do so. After my cell was safely in the oven, he left to go to the bathroom. Meanwhile, my unassuming mother came into the kitchen and turned the oven up to 425 to get dinner started.

Moments later, I was awoken by my father’s shout, “Did you turn up the oven?!” Getting up from the couch, I saw him look into the oven before letting out a mighty, “DAMMIT!!!”

Here’s what he saw:

I share this story with you not to amuse you, nor to please any of you in the slightest way whatsoever. I do not want you to learn from this, nor do I wish for you to ever return to this website. I do not tell you this story in an effort to become friends with you. Indeed, I already have all the friends I need, and those friends I do have I distrust and despise to a degree far beyond human comprehension. I do not tell you this story to inform, entertain, or forewarn.

No, I have told you the story of the time my father burned my cell phone out of sheer boredom, and an utter disinterest in my well-being. It is 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon. I am done with work for the day, and shortly I will take a nap. A few minutes ago, I did not yet feel tired enough to put my head to the pillow, but after this lackluster post, I am now feeling suitably drowsy.

Good afternoon, everyone.

A while back, Bridgette and I were visiting with her friends Lindsay and Dan, and their two-year old son Owen. After a while, it began to smell as if Owen had made a little stink-treat for all of us, and so Dan took him off to get changed. In his absence, Lindsay told the two of us that Owen was being potty trained, and he might have made a bit of a mess in his new Thomas the Tank Engine underoos. So chastened, I clenched my bottocks for the remainder of the evening, determined not to do likewise.

Owen came running back out a few minutes later, no worse for wear. He continued to be rambunctious and chatty. He came over to us to show us his new toy truck. As he was driving the truck around the table, he made a proud declaration, “I pooped on Thomas.”

He pooped on Thomas. So simple, yet so wonderfully profound.

If you think about it, we’ve all pooped on Thomas. Oh sure, maybe we haven’t actually defecated onto the actual image of Thomas, but in our hearts we’ve all done so. I can’t remember how many times I’ve imagined pooping on one Thomas or another. Maybe our Thomas is racism. Have you pooped on racism? Don’t lie to yourself now, because you most certainly have.

Maybe you pooped on Thomas when you’re caught in traffic and stressed out. Maybe you let out a massive, light brown dump on Thomas’ face the last time you paged through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. I don’t know. All I know is that Thomas is covered head-to-toe with rancid, pulsating piles of our filthy dung, and we don’t blink twice about it anymore.

I’m not trying to make all of you feel guilty. We’ve got enough in our lives that already does. I’m just trying to help all of us to take note of Thomas’ plight. We have to stop pooping on him. Seriously. Whether the poop is physical or metaphorical, loose or compacted, healthy or riddled with corn, it has to stop. Search your own heart for how you poop on him each day, and instead of doing that, shake Thomas’ hand or buy him a nice gift certificate or something.

Please people. Thomas can’t hold out much longer. Do the right thing. Put your poop in the toilet, where it belongs.

I’m currently enjoying reading historian David McCullough’s fine biography, John Adams. Like my previous examination of Ben Franklin, I’m learning a lot that I never knew before.

A few noteworthy items from the life of John Adams:

-Because of his intelligence and steadfast nature, Adams was acknowledged by his peers as the unofficial leader of the Second Continental Congress, which declared American independance from Britain.

-His proudest accomplishment as a lawyer was defending the British soldiers who fired in self-defense at the so-called Boston Massacre.

-Adams enjoyed scalding dogs to death in geysers.

-His oldest son, John Quincy Adams, later became president himself, to the pride of his father.

-He bested Paul Bunyan in an axe-fight.

-While writing in his journal in 1772, he penned the hopeful lyrics to Journey’s smash hit, “Don’t Stop Believing”.

-He served as America’s first ambassador to Britain during the difficult first years after the Revolution.

-His decendants have reportedly colonized Pluto.

-Adams was at times capable of shooting fire from his anus to destroy his enemies.

-His stubborn defiance and iron will rankled many of his peers, most notably Ben Franklin.

-It is believed that he somehow sired a fully grown goose.

-He guest-starred on a later episode of M*A*S*H* as a disillusioned young soldier who Winchester tries to help.

-During his term as the 2nd president of the United States, Adams’ diplomatic skills narrowly averted war with Napoleon’s France.

- White House chefs were often troubled by his angry requests for fresh goblin entrails.

-He coined the phrase, “you had me at hello”.

-John’s wife Abigail was a fiercely intelligent, protective, and beautiful woman, and their relationship is among the most beloved in American history.

-His wacky antics at the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1782 were the inspiration for the hit film, “Weekend at Bernie’s”.

-He had meth mouth.

Man, I can’t wait to teach this stuff next year!

So last week, Adam, Paul, and my sister all went to an eels concert, to bask in their melancholy glory.

The show was billed as “eels with strings”, and it featured cigar-smoking singer/songwriter e, two backing musicians on various instruments, and a string quartet. The setting was perfect for their quiet songs of heartache and loss, with a bit of hope mixed in for good measure.

What we didn’t count on was the idiot drunken fratboy that set next to us the entire time.

I first noticed this guy (let’s call him Poopteeth) when he squeezed past us to go to the bathroom/pound more beer before the show. This routine quickly grew familiar as Poopteeth stepped on our toes and knocked into our knees approximately 87 times throughout the performance. He also had the intelligence to light up a cigarrette during the show, regardless that Minneapolis is completely smoke-free. He asked Paul (who was seated next to him) if it bothered him, and Paul said, “No, but the ushers are going to be all over you in a second.” Poopteeth simply looked blankly back at Paul, until sure enough, the ushers descended on him like fat hicks swarming a turkey carcass at the State Fair.

The dynamic between Paul and Poopteeth was actually quite funny throughout the evening. Poopteeth took quite a liking to him, and attempted to keep an open dialogue with him during the show. Troublingly, Poopteeth continued to insist that Paul take a sip of his beer, which was regularly declined. Why it was so important to him that the stranger next to him share his beer is completely beyond me, perhaps because he was legally retarded.

Most annoying, however, were his confounding shouts of approval throughout the night. Initially, he would listen attentively to the songs, and then whoop unnecessarily loud at the conclusion. Soon enough, this discipline proved too much for Poopteeth to manage, and he quickly began to shout at all times. His affirmation of choice was the bizarre, “Do it, Doug!” It is important to note that there is nobody named Doug in the band.

This continued on like this for the remainder of the show. Poopteeth, possibly unaware of the sheer volume of his voice, shouting at all times. When he began requesting “Novocaine for the Soul” (eels’ lone pop hit), we just figured he was some idiot who didn’t even know the band. But soon enough, he was shouting belligerantly for “Susan’s House”, an obscure 1996 track, which confused us all the more. He shouted for it with such drunken intensity that Paul noted that he shuddered to think what might have happened had the song actually been played.

Now, I still fear that all my descriptions of the evening aren’t doing justice to what actually occured, so I have an assignment for you -

1. Download this, it’s a live recording of a song that was performed at our show called Dead of Winter.

2. As you’re listening to this quiet, touching song, put yourself in my position. This is a song about his mother dying of cancer, and I was incredibly moved by the performance, particularly in light of my own mother’s breast cancer.

3. Invite a particularly annoying acquaintance to sit next to you and shout unrelated messages at the top of his lungs:
“Do it, Doug!”
“Susan’s House!”
“Whoooooooooo!”
“FRENCH TOAST!!! WHOOOOOOOO!”

4. Share a lukewarm can of beer with this person.

There you have it, the eels concert experience!

There are some turns of phrase that I don’t get the opportunity to use nearly enough. For instance, when was the last time that “hoisted by his own petard” came in to play? Or “smiling like a cheshire cat”? When do I get to use that one? Never, probably. Most of our modern turns of phrase apply to situations that a majority of us won’t experience, unless we’re interred in a Cambodian prison camp, in which case we could pull out a lot of little-used phrases until being ruthlessly beheaded.

Anyway, a week or so ago, I was pleased to be able to pull out one of my favorite phrases that too-rarely get’s used: You’ve got pumpkin malt all over your mustache.

We were out after the Rock for appetizers and malts, and as you can see, Kevin got a bit sloppy with his pumpkin malt. At first we pretended not to notice as the thick, milky substance clung to the follicles on his upper lip. At first, I tried to casually lick it off, but Kevin rebuffed my efforts, and directed my licking instead to Bridgette. Next I feigned that I was losing my balance, and tried to swiftly kick the spilt malt off his face, but that similarly failed. Then, seizing the opportunity that had so-long eluded me, I calmly, softly spoke to him:

“Kevin, my old friend, you’ve got pumpkin malt on your mustache.”

We laughed and laughed, while everybody at the resturaunt came by to slap me on the back and congratulate me on my accomplishment. This was my hour. After a brief speech and recognition ceremony, things seemed to returned to normal. Later on, as we were leaving the bar, we got into a gang fight and I beat a man unconscious with a brick.

It just goes to show, the early bird catches the worm!