Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie, and HGH

Ahhhh, the aroma of recently excised turf- two crisp white lines laid as boundaries- 3 square bags and one odd plate measured to exactness- the unbridled crowd roaring its approval as spheres fly and wood cracks- Nothing quite compares to the boys of summer expertly plying their baseball trade for thousands of fans. Too bad all I get to watch is a bunch of 5 year olds playing baseball- I mean T-ball, I mean boys in newly washed uniforms rolling in dirt while their mothers laugh and their fathers disavow paternity.

Tonight the family witnessed the fourth and latest game installments of the Hendersonville, TN 5 and under T-ball League, better known as “can any five year old keep from going to the bathroom for one stinking hour while we try and play a game here?” This installment proved to be the best for my son’s team “Thunder” so far this season with only three player trips to the restroom during our time in the field. Thunder also made three put outs, -not in the same inning mind you, but three outs nonetheless. My son Gibson experienced a breakthrough proving that it was indeed possible for him to go fifteen minutes without crying or calling his older sister a “poopy dumb-pants.” I wonder what Babe Ruth called his sister when he was five years old? But I digress.

Watching this and Thunder’s three previous games has been somewhat an exercise in futility. What had started with so much hope for me has definitely turned into a struggle. Because I had played in the backyard with my son since he was two years old, I was sure he would be a player extraordinaire. But it seems I was slightly mistaken. He does alright, but doesn’t really stand out in his performances. So I have a new plan.

Instead of spending my time personally working with my son and teaching him the fundamentals, I am investing in a personal trainer for him. The trainer I have lined up has assured me that with some strength training each day and a good dose of Human Growth Hormone that Gibson will be bench-pressing 250 pounds by age 10. Sure there are a few minor side effects, but I am quite positive Gibson won’t mind and his future career is worth the risk. He doesn’t want to be a rocket scientist anyway, so what are a few brain cells. And I sure know he won’t care to have children when he gets older. He can’t stand kids. Besides, not everyone has adverse effects. He isn’t too fond of needles though, so I’ll have to figure some way around that one. I can’t wait to see the results. If it works for him, I’ll try it to see if I can get rid of this spare tire around my gut. Wish us luck!

We Need More Programs

How do those birds do that? Build nests, that is. I mean the scrawny things have no arms, no hands, no thumbs and bird brains. Somehow with just their beaks they manage to build these magnificent homes in which to lay their eggs. I can’t even change a light bulb without cursing in several languages. The last time I tried to build a bird house was in shop class in the 7th Grade. That little construction foray took me a whole semester just to get four boards nailed together in what eerily resembled a medieval torture device.

Today as I sat eating delicious pieces of a former bovine dressed with mayonnaise, lettuce, and what I hope were salmonella free tomatoes, I observed these curious birds scurrying about. These odd little things were pecking at the ground, flittering about like an ADD ten year old on a three day cocaine binge. I noticed one of the fellows in particular kept pecking at the ground and then flying up in the tree that was shading my car. The rest of the clan seemed to be pulling up worms and enjoying a meal- something akin to what I was doing at the time. For the better part of an hour I sat there listening to my favorite talk radio station engorging myself on charred animal remains. The whole time I was there these birds continued in the same fashion- pecking, eating, flying, pecking some more, scurrying about. After finishing my rather tasty meal, I exited my car and looked in the tree shading my car. There sat that one odd creature fiddling around with a nest. The little rascal had some piece of grass or weed in its beak and was pushing it into the side of the nest as if the world would stop if he were unsuccessful.

As I returned to my gas-guzzler and left, I wondered what government program this bird had been through to be such a fine engineer. Was he a product of the Public Avian Education System or did his parents privately educate him? Did he attend Harvard University for the Birds? Was he an apprentice engineer and then ventured out on his own? Was he a Bird School Dropout that used a government sponsored engineering program to become educated? Was he an engineer at all? Maybe his home had been destroyed in a storm and the Bird Council lent him a mobile nest. Maybe the Council built the nest for him and he was just doing some extra decorating.

I began contemplating the plights of all his bird friends that I had seen there also. They obviously were working? But why? Was there no bird stamp program? Or were they the unlucky ones that had to work to pay their bird taxes to provide the bird stamp program? Did they live in HUD Nests? Were their nest rents subsidized by the Bird Council? Would they be able to go to college? Would they qualify for scholarships or inbirdships? Had some of the birds gotten knocked up while they were still in bird school and delivered out of birdlock birds?

What I really wanted to know was- whom or what was taking care of these birds? Surely there was a bird government that insured that all birds had the same number of worms to eat- that all nests were similarly constructed in size, shape, and accoutrements- that all the birds had free bird health care- that female birds had the right to abort their baby birdies- surely a government “of the birds, by the birds, and for the birds.”

In a bit of literary irony, before pulling into my driveway, I hit a bird. I wonder who pays for the funeral and burial?

Ode to My Wife

Lover, when first I saw thee
My heart did skip a beat,
Your beauty was unmatched
Throughout the land complete.

Your raven locks of silk
Wafting in the wind,
Would surely launch a thousand ships,
Your honor to defend.

Your skin so soft and supple
Beneath my weathered hand,
Would send a man to frenzy,
From every foreign land.

Your ruby lips so sweet
Brought forth the siren’s song,
For but a moment’s taste,
Men dreamt the whole day long.

Your eyes like diamonds shone
The splendor of your face,
That the gold in every vault
Could never have replaced.

And though some years have added
A wrinkle here or there,
Your beauty still unmatched,
Remains beyond compare.

The Gift of Grace

Seven Layers upon the Canvas lay,
For all, the Masters timeless work displayed.
Mona Lisa, Da Vinci’s story told,
The Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s.
And yet simple colors the Master placed,
Arranged to reveal an angelic face.
His simple strokes formed a work of love,
Picasso and Van Gough knew nothing of.
With simple tools the Master refined,
A Heart, A Soul, A most beautiful Mind.
And within our world the Master placed,
This symphony of art we know as Grace.
Earthly masters in their own right shine,
But ill compare to His work so fine.
A Master’s gift to direct our days,
The beacon of God’s ethereal ways.

Gun Toters, Bible Thumpers, Meat Eaters and Other Riff Raff

Guns, Guns, everywhere Guns!

This past week we reached a milestone in my son's maturation process. Believing that he was now mature enough to learn the finer points of subverting justice through the "gun show loophole," I was eager to continue his education in disrespecting the laws of the land. Since I had previously shown him the uselessness of the speed limit, red light enforcement, trespassing and fishing without a license, I thought it was time for graduating to more felonious acts.

So, this past week I joined with hundreds of other ignorant, in-bred, cousin kissin', hayseed rednecks and drove my 5 year old legitimate son in my hemi-powered, 12 mile to the gallon, jacked up, gun-racked, dual-exhausted, window-tinted, radio-blasting 4x4 to the local gun show in Smyrna, TN.

Pulling into the parking lot I immediately surmised I was among friends- if not for the bountiful supply of kindred gun-racked gas-guzzlers, the bumper sticker on the Ford reading, "D.A.D.D.- Dads Against Daughters Dating" erased any doubt.

As we made our way into the show, however, I became somewhat apprehensive. Since the elitist, left-wing anti-gun activists have so expertly educated us proletariat on the evils of gun proliferation, I knew that with more than 5,000 guns of all types and calibers within such a small area, my son would surely witness at least 10 shootings, some of which might injure or kill either one of us. His education, however, was too important so we pressed on.

Once inside the main hall with over 800 tables containing knives, guns, and all things related to both, I relaxed. I saw a few hundred non-threatening people milling around the tables as peddlers hawked their wares. Sure there were a few suspect individuals with menacing camouflauged apparel displaying varying types of military insignias- war mongering killers of innocent women and children no doubt, but on the whole they looked like my son and I. Fathers, mostly, like me 35-55 years old were instructing their sons in the art of justice subterfuge- sometimes the occasional daughter or wife in tow. On the whole no one looked too threatening.

So enjoying a more relaxed state, I began searching for a handgun for my wife. After all since I am your averge bigoted, racist, sexist, animal-torturing, kid-ignoring, gun show-going, and most importantly wife-beating American white male, it was only fair that my wife should have something with which to defend herself. After speaking with one of the death peddlers, no doubt a recently paroled sexual harraser several years behind on his child support payments, I purchased a .38 special Smith and Wesson revolver with a built in laser sight. A fine firearm indeed. Just what the little lady needed. It was very pretty- would match all of her purses and it was feathery light-she being much too weak to fire a real man's weapon.

Imagine my surprise when the vermine peddler instructed his undoubtedly underpaid, overworked, and sexually harrased woman assistant to run a Federal background check on me, complete with finger prints. I became nervous and started sweating profusely. I clutched my son tightly next to me and began looking for the nearest exit. How could I pass the background check, I thought to myself. After all I am a white, anglo-saxon, protestant male. I get paid a six figure salary for doing nothing, while others make practically nothing for slaving a whole 40 hours a week. I own two homes- well, I own two mortgages anyway, while many hard-working people live on the streets. I own two gas guzzling terrorist supporting vehicles. I only paid 30% of my income to the IRS last year. Surely I should have paid more. I have health insurance that I pay for. I only gave money to my church, the Vanderbilt Children's hospital, the Heart Association, the Humane Society, the Union Rescue Mission, Sumner County tornado victims, and the March of Dimes last year. I believe in and worship God. I'm one of those ignorant Christians that hates everybody except unborn children. I squash bugs and eat meat. My children go to private school for God's sake. What kind of a person am I?

Somehow the vermine peddler and his abused assistant let me leave with the gun. I'm sure he was breaking the law just so he could make a buck. I mean how will he ever catch up on his child support payments? I'm sure he didn't pay the sales tax he collected from me either. You know most business owners are lying, thieving white men who inherited their businesses from their murderous slave trading ancestors- so why should they worry about paying any tax. I mean after all it's their buddies making the laws anyway.

We made it home around 9:00 pm, just in time for the evening news. Only 3 shootings in Nashville that night. Unbelievably, none of them at the gun show or with any of the firearms purchased there. Media lies no doubt.

Anyway, next week I'll draw on my experience from the gun show and instruct my son in felony tax evasion. A family that evades together stays together!