The following is a real telephone conversation with my mother.

“GeekMan, I was reading your blob yesterday…”
“Mom, it’s a Blog, not a blob. Please try to get it right, ok?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Well, considering that one is a soft, amorphous mass akin to vanilla pudding and the other is a well designed, intelligent, witty and humorous collection of essays by your son, I would hope that it would matter to you.”
“You really think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I don’t have to think it mom, I know it.”

[crickets]

“Whatever. Anyway, I was reading your BLOG yesterday and I don’t remember the whole hot chocolate incident you wrote about. I do however remember the Lobster Incident™ and I’m really surprised you didn’t write about it, too.”
“Lobster Incident?”
“You remember, don’t you?
“Uh, no. should I?”
“Yes! You were six and your father brought home four huge lobsters and they escaped when I opened the fridge. I spent about an hour chasing them around the house with the broom because I was scared they were going to claw me to death and you kept screaming ‘The Scary Lop-Stars are gonna eat me!’ while hiding in the hallway closet!”
“OMG. Scary Lop-Stars? Really?”
“Oh my, yes. It was so bad that I had to call in our neighbor to help me catch them. You wouldn’t come out of the closet until I swore that all the Scary Lop-Stars were gone. And when we finally put them in the pot to cook them they screamed and screamed and screamed. I know all that screaming upset me, but for some reason I think I remember you sitting on a stool next to the pot rubbing your hands together and smiling. Isn’t that weird?”
“I can’t believe I hid in the closet from Scary Lop-Stars.”
“Well, you were a very… ‘delicate’ child.”
“Girlie-wimp, mom. The proper description is ‘girlie-wimp.”
“At least you didn’t wet yourself again. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Mom, I have to go put my head in the oven now. I’ll talk to you later, ok?”
“Ok, honey. Give HoBiscuit my love.”
“Sure thing. I’ll put it in the note. Bye.”
“Bye.”

Holy crap, I was the Swedish Chef as a child. Bork, bork, bork!

I love hot chocolate.

Really, I do. It’s so tasty, with its chocolaty goodness, that even the smell of it can send an ecstatic shiver of excitement up and down my spine. Since it was cold out yesterday I made myself my first cup of the season of my favorite brand of instant hot chocolate, Swiss Miss (with extra marshmallows).

And god help me, I nearly wet myself in ecstasy.

As I sat there sipping the blessed nectar of the gods and watching Survivor on TV, I was transported back in time to one of the most horrific moments of my young life. I remember it like it was yesterday…
Continue reading →

“Will you look at that? I didn’t know there was a river back here.”

I was about 12 or 13 years old and had been taking a walk through the woods near my father’s new upstate home when I came across the ‘river’. And by river, I really mean pathetically small stream about a quarter of a mile from my dad’s house, which he shared with his new wife and my new step-sisters. They were nice enough as far as I could tell, I guess. My mother called them evil, back-stabbing, husband stealing, home breaking, whore-slut witches, of course. But still, I thought they were nice. Of course, my viewpoint was a little skewed by my tweenage libido.

You see, they weren’t really related to me and they all had boobies.

Anywaste, my brother and step-sisters had become engrossed in some strange game involving dolls, feather boas and some tiny teacups. And although they tried to make it sound exciting, like what happened in Boston back in 1773, this so-called “Tea Party” seemed very lame to me. The fact that they wouldn’t let me wear the pink hat with the single yellow flower in it had nothing to do with my decision to throw down my powder blue smock, tell them they were ‘poopie-heads’ and stalk out of the room.

In my defense, it was a really nice hat.

So, instead of wasting my time drinking imaginary tea with imaginary friends, I decided to take a walk through the woods and find me some creepy-crawly things to catch. I might have been young, but I knew far more about woodsy creepy-crawlies than almost anyone else in the world. This was long before the Discovery channel, Nigel or the Crocodile Hunter were around to teach kids about the animal kingdom, but somehow I managed to become an expert of snakes, frogs and insects anyway.

You could have called me the Chocodile Hunter.

So, there I was standing by the edge of a small stream behind my father’s house. It was a beautiful summer’s day and I decided that I would search the banks of the shore for wildlife, catch anything interesting and maybe bring it home to show my dad. I thought it was fun to bring things home to my dad because he and I would play 20 Questions whenever I did. It would go something like this;

“What have you got there, son?”
“I dunno.”
“Is it alive?”
“I think so.”
“Did you get it from outside?”
“Maybe.”
“It looks dirty.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“I dunno.”
“So, what is it?”
“I dunno.”
“Sigh. Maybe I should ask it what it is, hmmm?”
“Maybe.”
“Ok then, well? What are you?”
“Well sir my names Dave, but nowadays most people call me ‘Stinkin’ Bum’.”
“See son? That’s why we don’t feed wild things. They tend to follow us home.”
“Sorry daddy.”
“Excuse me sir, but the kid said something about Pudding Pops and Fresca?”

As I was searching the shoreline, I saw what looked like a rock further down the stream move a little, so I walked over to investigate. To my surprise I found that the moving rock was no rock at all, but a wild snapping turtle! Thinking about how proud my dad would be when I came home with a real, live turtle, I quickly reached down to pick him up before he could escape back into the stream. Grabbing him by his shell, I brought him up to eye level for a better look. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything because he was hiding from me in his shell.

The little bastard.

Wanting to see his face, I decided to poke at his head with my finger until he came out. I poked and I poked, but he steadfastly refused to expose his head for my viewing pleasure and I began to become upset. But no matter how hard I poked, he still stayed hidden away in his shell. This got me angry to no end, and so I began to mock the turtle.

[poke]
“Hey ugly! Why are you so scared? Don’t you want to come out?”
[poke]
“You’re a stupid turtle, aren’t you? You’re so dumb you forgot how to get out of your own shell, didn’t you?”
[poke, poke]
“Come on! Let me see you’re face, stupid! If you come out now I won’t turn you into turtle soup!”
[poke]
“Why are you still hiding? Are you ugly? Are you disfigured, like Quasimodo? Are you the Turtle of Notre Dame in there? Huh?”
[poke, poke]
Hey! Come out right now or I’m going to smash you on these rocks! I mean it!”
[poke]
SNAP!

Apparently the turtle had had enough.

Have you ever smashed your finger in a car door? How about hitting it with a hammer, or intentionally put it into a vise? If you have, then you’ll understand the kind of pain that turtle inflicted upon my poor, unsuspecting finger. If none of those things have happened in your life yet, then go do them now or you just won’t understand the kind of immense pain I felt when that little bastard clamped down on my finger.

My mind actually shut down for a second or two.

I stood there frozen in time like some sort of statue for what seemed like hours. My body was ramrod straight and my mind was completely blank. My right hand’s index finger, which had been extended for another poke at my little prisoner, looked to me as if a turtle had been surgically affixed to it. The turtle hadn’t taken a tiny bit of flesh, either. Oh no, that would have been too merciful to its tormentor. It had my entire nail, down to the first knuckle, in its mouth. And it was angrily grinding its mouth together for maximum damage. I was in so much pain, and was so surprised, that I couldn’t even scream. I just made that “Ah!” sound over and over as I stared at my finger.

Then it looked at me and I swear to you, it grinned.

Suddenly I could move again, and my only thought was to get this fricking thing OFF of my finger before it swallowed me whole. I began pulling on the turtle, then shaking my hand wildly and finally doing some sort of aboriginal dance involving flapping arms, flailing hands and high-pitched whines and guttural screams of pain, but the little bastard wouldn’t let go no matter how much I begged for mercy.

Finally, in desperation, I put my hand into the stream.

He was gone in an instant. One moment I had a new, turtle-shaped finger and the next my finger was its usual shape and size. Looking at my hand in fear for the damage I was sure he had inflicted, I was surprised to find that my finger was completely unharmed. No broken bones, my nail wasn’t so much as scratched and the skin wasn’t even broken, let alone bloody as I expected. Shaking my head in disbelief at my good fortune, I decided to head back to my dad’s house to see what was on TV and leave the wildlife alone for another day. Since that day I have seen many turtles, and although I have pet them, prodded them, poked them and picked them up, there is one thing I haven’t done. And I suggest you never do it either.

Never, ever, mock a turtle.

Meeting notes from May 23, 1971

Satan: “OK you demonic slaves, listen up. Sales of children’s souls for candy are down which is bad, but kids lying and stealing to acquire candy is up. That means that overall we’re doing alright, but alright just isn’t good enough in this economy. If we don’t make our numbers next month I’m afraid I’ll have to let some of you go and turn you into fuel for the boilers.”

[general mumbles of anxious denial]

Satan: “Shut up. Now, R&D has just finished their latest study on children and deviant behavior and it turns out that Johnson here was on the right track with his Pop Rocks idea. Johnson’s Pop Rocks have been great for business, they’ve got a lot of sugar in them and kids just love the sound they make when they eat them and drink Coke at the same time. The only problem is that Pop Rocks just don’t have enough sugar in them to make them truly evil. You see, according to R&D, what we need to do is get more sugar into these kids so they’ll get a sugar rush, leading to a sugar high, and finally sugar withdrawal. This will then lead to deviant behavior and the subsequent sale of their soul to one of our reps to get out of trouble, or for nothing less than even more sugar! It’s brilliant in its simplicity. So, there must be some way to get more sugar into human children without increasing our costs and no one’s leaving this room until we figure it out.”

[crickets]

Satan: “Come on, demons! Doesn’t anyone have an idea?”

Johnson: “Uh, Your Unholiness?”

Satan: “Yes Johnson?”

Johnson: “Well, I was just thinking… If it’s sugar we need to give them, why don’t we do just that? You know, give them pure sugar?”

Satan: “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

Johnson: “Well, you see, I thought that maybe we could just take some sugar, give it a little drop of flavoring and package it in a way that kids will think is cool. We could even keep its price down to a dime or so, just so they won’t think twice about buying it with their spare change. And to keep costs down, we could put the sugar into paper wrappers that look like straws. Even better, we could use plastic straws and charge a little more! Hey, we’ve got all those surplus Hoola-Hoops from the 60s lying around, right? Well, we could always cut them in half and sell them as extra large, super sugar straws.”

Satan: “Johnson, you’re a genius! I love this idea. Just for that I think I’ll cancel your three o’clock Hot Poker In The Anus appointment for today.”

Johnson: “Oh, thank you sir! Thank you!”

Satan: “But wait, what are we going to call these sugar straws so the parents won’t object when their kids start eating them?”

Johnson: “Well sir, for the sake of irony, you could name it something cute like Pixie Stix. That way it doesn’t sound as disturbing to the parents as it would if you named it more truthfully. You know, like Edible Kiddy Cocaine or Psycho Sand.”

Satan: “BRILLIANT! Johnson, I’m taking you down off that crucifix and giving you two hours in the Pillow Room. Hell, you’ve done such a good job today I’m even going to throw in Cleopatra and Helen of Troy.”

[Johnson sheds tears of joy as he is lowered to the floor]

Johnson: “Oh, thank you sir! Thank you!”

End of meeting notes.

Ah, the memories of youth.

“Get on board, step inside,
Soaring for a magic ride,
Roaring toward the other side,
Where only rainbows hide…”

When I was a young Geek, I remember sitting in front of the TV every morning before school and singing along to the greatest children’s show of all time. I had friends on that show, friends who would teach me things that Mr. Rogers and Big Bird couldn’t, or wouldn’t, teach me at all. Things like, how to properly insult a friend without them actually getting angry with you. Or teaching me what makes a practical joke both practical and funny. Or helping me understand that so called ‘real’ news programs should be a lot more cynical if they wanted to be funny.

Of course, I’m talking about The Great Space Coaster.

Gary Gnu, Goriddle Gorilla, Edison Elephant, Baxter, Speed Reader, Roy, Fran, Dan, and the evil M.T. Promises made each day a joy. My favorite parts of the show were the Gary Gnu G-News show and whenever Goriddle would play a practical joke on Edison. Damn, I really didn’t like Edison, with his hand-held trunk, satellite dish ears and obsessive-compulsive dusting. I always thought the other cast members should have just killed him and had space elephant steaks for the rest of the year.

Mmmmm… Space elephant steak. [drool]

Well, I’ve been doing a little research on the show lately to find out if there are any toys or other paraphernalia that I could purchase and thus revisit, however pathetically it might be, my long-lost youth. I haven’t found any items to buy yet, but I have found out some startling facts about the people on the show that I thought I’d take a moment to share with all of you.

No, no. Don’t thank me now. That look of stoic, martyred tolerance in your eyes is more than enough.

Remember ‘Fran’? You know, the almost cute but not quite good looking girl from the show? Yeah, she was my first TV crush, too. And I’ve always thought she was dead, you know, like how everyone thinks Mickey Rooney is dead until he shows up at the Academy Awards? Well guess what? I found out that Fran’s not dead and is in fact alive and well and doing an off-off-Broadway show! Not only that, but if you’ve ever heard the commercial for Sleepy’s mattresses then you’ve heard her singing!

That’s right; she sings the Sleepy’s song.

“Trust Sleepy’s, for the rest of your life.”

I also found out that her real name isn’t Fran, it’s Emily Bindiger. But you know what? She’ll always be Fran to me. Fran of the sky blue colored shirts and bright yellow suspender pants. Fran of the wild, untamed hair held back with banana clips and scrunchies. Fran, who I always believed was sharing a secret smile with Edison Elephant and his long, thick trunk.

Oh, how my adolescent loins yearned for Fran and her wicked, evil ways.

I also found out, much to my chagrin, that the voice actor of Goriddle Gorilla is none other than my archenemy, Kevin Clash. For those of you who don’t know, Kevin is also the voice of Elmo of Sesame Creep Street fame. I really hate Elmo, but now that I know Kevin was also the voice of Goriddle maybe I should be a bit more lenient towards him and his new alter ego.

Nah, Elmo’s still a frickin annoying piece of crap.

Well, I’m still looking for merchandise from the show, or even something made recently that is based on the show, like those new Muppet Show figures I’m seeing everywhere. Haven’t found anything worth my money yet, though. Woe is me.

“On the Great Space Coaster, whoa-oh-oh,
On the Great Space Coaster, off we go…”

Oh man, I really miss that show.

“Good morning!”

I opened my eyes, expecting to see Bread sitting on my chest, staring at me with an evil smile of impending doom, and instead saw nothing more threatening than the ceiling of my hotel room. Groggily, I looked around the room and, when I was certain that Bread was nowhere in sight, I attempted to smile.

And fell out of bed clutching my mouth in pain.

As I lay there on the industrially carpeted floor amongst all of the ancient food, dirt and other, less savory stains, I began ruminating about a great many things that had quite suddenly become very important to me. Things like life, death, the universe and whether the slight discoloration on the carpet next to my watering left eye was caused by someone’s spilled soda or sexual excrement. But what was most important to me at that moment, what was absolutely crucial to my very survival, was focusing every fiber of my being to the task of not moving my mouth.

“I said, ‘Good morning’!”

As I was now wide awake, I knew that the voice speaking to me with such a chipper and perky attitude could not possibly be Bread. Using deductive reasoning, sonar triangulation and a handy abacus that was, oddly enough, taped to the underside of the bed for just such an emergency, I came to the conclusion that whoever was speaking was doing so from inside my own mouth. I decided to attempt communication with the invader.

“Mmm?”

Even so small a movement of my mouth nearly caused me to black out.

“Hi there! My name’s Hank. Hank Cankersore. And I’ll be your relentless, stinging, shooting pain for the next several days. Isn’t that swell?”

“Mmmm? MMRRRGGGHHHH!”

To illustrate just how ‘swell’ he thought this announcement was, Hank had decided to rub up against one of my teeth, which suddenly felt about as smooth as crushed glass and sandpaper would on a hemorrhoid.

“Now, now. There’s no need to convulse with joy like that! I know you’re as thrilled and excited to have me as I am to be here, but let’s not forget that I’m going to be with you for quite a while, so there’s no need to cry. So you just get up off that floor and march into that bathroom, Mister. We’ve got some teeth to brush!”

As I slowly lifted myself off the floor and made my way to the bathroom, I realized that my entire day was shot to hell. I was supposed to be meeting with potential clients all day, but with my ability to charm them hampered by my complete inability to so much as breathe without gasping in pain and sucking air through my tightly clenched teeth, I figured I might as well suck on the barrel of a Smith & Wesson and call it a day.

Unfortunately, I had no gun.

Somehow, and I don’t know how, I made it through all the meetings and not one of the people I met with had any idea that the tears in my eyes were caused by anything other than allergies. Hank did keep me on my toes though, and there were one or two times that I nearly screamed as he got stuck to a tooth, or swelled up and snuck in between my teeth just as I was trying to bite down on a piece of food. But all in all, I kept my pain hidden from, and my smile on for, the clients.

Now that I’m home though, all I can say is, “Thank god for Anbesol.”

I had an idea.

It was a good idea, brilliant actually, and I was excited enough about it to get up from my Comfy Couch of Super Sleep to write it down so I wouldn’t forget it. I know I walked over to the kitchen table to find a pen and, when that proved fruitless, I distinctly remember thinking that turning on the computer would take too long and so I kept looking for a pen.

Because, I had an idea.

I knew this idea was going to be important to me later on in life and if I didn’t at least write it down somewhere I’d regret it for as long as I lived. I walked into my home office where I found a pen but for some reason or another decided that putting my idea into the computer was better than simply writing it down. So, I turned on my computer and waited for it to boot up.

And still, I had an idea.

While I was waiting, my mind got to thinking about all the money and fame I would garner because of this wonderful idea. I began thinking of all the things my newfound fame and fortune could buy me. Things like fast cars, expensive mansions, Britney Spears’ ‘virginity’ and even computer equipment that would make Bill Gates green with envy. By the time my computer was ready I was singing ‘Money Makes The World Go Round’ and trying to figure out the after-tax interest I could earn on a gazillion dollars.

All because I had an idea.

When MS Word finally popped up and I came face to screen with that completely empty white space, my mind froze. Somehow, in a way that can only be explained using complex quantum-mechanical equations, experimental psychoanalytical procedures and a full color, animated PowerPoint presentation utilizing at least one instance of the ‘applause’ sound effect, I had lost my train of thought.

Suddenly, I had no idea.

My idea, the one that could change my life to such an extreme that all the girls I ever liked in my entire life would find their way to my front door and beg me to make James Bond-style love to them, was gone. And as I sit here writing this entry, I cannot for the life of me remember anything about my great idea. I think it might have packed its bags, put on its coat and hat and snuck out of my right ear to pursue an acting career and now I am left with nothing but a vague recollection of someone saying something on some channel on TV that made something in my head sit up and take notice.

It may have involved helicopters. And Gummi Worms. I think. Damn.

I had an idea.