Father and Son, moi taking a rest after a hard days work.
Spartaaaaaa!
Gahhhh, for that, you die!!
And my padawan that is how it's done.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
More Pics of the Future UFC Champ
Father and Son, moi taking a rest after a hard days work.
Spartaaaaaa!
Gahhhh, for that, you die!!
And my padawan that is how it's done.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Dude! She doesn't know!
One weekend during my teenage years, like any other sweet, parent obedient teen, I DIDN'T have a big party when the folks where away. *cough*.
I don't know why, but mother had entered a competition using her partners Penthouse magazine...umm...yeah... Anyway, she won, and now her and her partner were off to Sydney for the weekend to have dinner with all the playmates...@#$@#$%!!!!
So, they're off for the weekend, so...duh party much? Hmm, what can I remember from that party? This is how smashed we were. We went through Mum's old LP collection. Listening to 'Sneakers, Neil Diamond etc' trust me, it hurts even to type that, let alone my poor ears. Also, an older member of the group brought over a VHS porno, some weird Japanese animi. Now I can say 'Oh God yes' and 'get that tenticale out of my ass' in Japanese. We also discovered that a tampon, soaked in beer, and heated up in the microwave...is bad. That's all I have to say about that.
And of course, (I had to start it) something got broken. I thought it fun to run AT the sofa, it would tip over, and I'd roll off it on the other side. YAY, what fun. Did it a few more times, then Dawson did it. Brilliant. Dawson was the good kid. He never drank when we all started. He refused. But then he discovered Vodka and would regularly skull the whole friggen bottle and be...paralytic (doesn't quite describe the full extent of his inebriated state, woe is the English language). Anyway, Dawson runs, and CRACK. This time when the sofa tipped over, one of the small legs (it had small legs, not big legs, more like a stump than a leg, like an amputated sofa), broke off.
"Aww man, how are we gonna hide this". Of course, from other postings you know, I have great ideas when drunk as a skunk. Off to the toolshed, grab a nail, hacksaw off the head, grab the superglue and return to sofa with a severed leg. Together we perform surgery on the stricken sofa, placing the 'pin' in the leg and gluing it all together. Presto! Fixed! Genius, now...no more sofa tipping (we did that to the cows, but that's another story)
The next morning, everybody has bailed, and I'm stuck with clean up duty. It's ok, Mum and co. aren't due back for another day. So I'm happily listening to music (loud as hell of course) and vacuuming the floor (so of course I can't hear anything that is happening outside...like a car arriving, parking, doors opening and closing etc). Out of the corner of my eye, two figures. I look up and mouth drop. "Errr hi?" Mum and co are staring at me, in mortified shock that I would be cleaning the house out of my own free will. In a few more seconds realization settles in when they notice that I'm trying to get beer stains out of the carpet...busted! But hey, nothings broken... So I get off with rolling of eyes, shaking of head and to finish cleaning up.
Fast forward 12 years. I'm a big boy now. Been living overseas, and return to the scene of the crime. We throw a big BBQ, mates from all over come. Parents as well, family friends, to welcome me home (not really, just an excuse to have a good ole piss up at somebody else's home). We eat, and are merry. A bit drunk, but not as bad as in the days of our experimenting youth. Mother has refurbished the sofa and purchased another set. So she's sitting over on the newer sofa/chairs, and as fate would have it, Dawson and myself are sitting on the old refurbished sofa. Conversation and more beer drinking ensues. During a lull in the conversation, Dawson starts looking at the sofa. A puzzled look crosses his face. Same shape, height, style...but different color...Dawson looks at me questioningly and asks in a very audible tone "Err, didn't we break this sofa?"
Mother looks at us "What!"
I look at my friend, shocked that he would betray, nay STAB his friend in the back right in front of the family! "DUDE, She doesn't know!"
Dawson explodes into peels of laughter knowing that he just dumped me in it, then totally spills the beans telling Mum what happened. I dive into more beer. When I look up....I get the rolling eyes and shaking of head treatment again.
Ahh, we will always be sons to our mothers and get the rolling eyes I guess.
(Thank God there are some things she STILL doesn't know about, shhh!)
I don't know why, but mother had entered a competition using her partners Penthouse magazine...umm...yeah... Anyway, she won, and now her and her partner were off to Sydney for the weekend to have dinner with all the playmates...@#$@#$%!!!!
So, they're off for the weekend, so...duh party much? Hmm, what can I remember from that party? This is how smashed we were. We went through Mum's old LP collection. Listening to 'Sneakers, Neil Diamond etc' trust me, it hurts even to type that, let alone my poor ears. Also, an older member of the group brought over a VHS porno, some weird Japanese animi. Now I can say 'Oh God yes' and 'get that tenticale out of my ass' in Japanese. We also discovered that a tampon, soaked in beer, and heated up in the microwave...is bad. That's all I have to say about that.
And of course, (I had to start it) something got broken. I thought it fun to run AT the sofa, it would tip over, and I'd roll off it on the other side. YAY, what fun. Did it a few more times, then Dawson did it. Brilliant. Dawson was the good kid. He never drank when we all started. He refused. But then he discovered Vodka and would regularly skull the whole friggen bottle and be...paralytic (doesn't quite describe the full extent of his inebriated state, woe is the English language). Anyway, Dawson runs, and CRACK. This time when the sofa tipped over, one of the small legs (it had small legs, not big legs, more like a stump than a leg, like an amputated sofa), broke off.
"Aww man, how are we gonna hide this". Of course, from other postings you know, I have great ideas when drunk as a skunk. Off to the toolshed, grab a nail, hacksaw off the head, grab the superglue and return to sofa with a severed leg. Together we perform surgery on the stricken sofa, placing the 'pin' in the leg and gluing it all together. Presto! Fixed! Genius, now...no more sofa tipping (we did that to the cows, but that's another story)
The next morning, everybody has bailed, and I'm stuck with clean up duty. It's ok, Mum and co. aren't due back for another day. So I'm happily listening to music (loud as hell of course) and vacuuming the floor (so of course I can't hear anything that is happening outside...like a car arriving, parking, doors opening and closing etc). Out of the corner of my eye, two figures. I look up and mouth drop. "Errr hi?" Mum and co are staring at me, in mortified shock that I would be cleaning the house out of my own free will. In a few more seconds realization settles in when they notice that I'm trying to get beer stains out of the carpet...busted! But hey, nothings broken... So I get off with rolling of eyes, shaking of head and to finish cleaning up.
Fast forward 12 years. I'm a big boy now. Been living overseas, and return to the scene of the crime. We throw a big BBQ, mates from all over come. Parents as well, family friends, to welcome me home (not really, just an excuse to have a good ole piss up at somebody else's home). We eat, and are merry. A bit drunk, but not as bad as in the days of our experimenting youth. Mother has refurbished the sofa and purchased another set. So she's sitting over on the newer sofa/chairs, and as fate would have it, Dawson and myself are sitting on the old refurbished sofa. Conversation and more beer drinking ensues. During a lull in the conversation, Dawson starts looking at the sofa. A puzzled look crosses his face. Same shape, height, style...but different color...Dawson looks at me questioningly and asks in a very audible tone "Err, didn't we break this sofa?"
Mother looks at us "What!"
I look at my friend, shocked that he would betray, nay STAB his friend in the back right in front of the family! "DUDE, She doesn't know!"
Dawson explodes into peels of laughter knowing that he just dumped me in it, then totally spills the beans telling Mum what happened. I dive into more beer. When I look up....I get the rolling eyes and shaking of head treatment again.
Ahh, we will always be sons to our mothers and get the rolling eyes I guess.
(Thank God there are some things she STILL doesn't know about, shhh!)
Monday, June 16, 2008
Babies 2nd day
Well here he is, weighing in at 3680g, 11 June, 2008 at 10:15pm. Name? Well, as usual everything I throw at the wife gets met with a screwed up nose, but Liam looks to be it...perhaps, guh.Spent 5 days at the hospital with wifey, never able to hold him, these photos were through the zoo viewing glass, able to be viewed twice a day. I'm surprised it wasn't a pay per view.
And the heavens are crying. When he came it started raining...it's STILL RAINING! Behold the end of the world!!!
Hmm, I wonder what is making him smile...
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Houdini?
Being born exactly 100 years after the great escape artist, perhaps some of his magic was passed on? Bah, who knows, but one evening of drinking and talking to my mother, she told me of an interesting tale of my brief period of a nappy soiling goo goo ga ga.
We lived in Wellington, (or in it's vicinity) small house, front yard, back yard etc. Not much in the the way of furnishings, hey, we no rich eh? Anyway, mother dearest would put yours truly in ones cot, so that mother could get some relaxation time without having to worry that I was stalking a kettle power cord dangling from the kitchen bench. I swear, the 'don't pull' signs only encourage people to in-fact, PULL.
So, mum puts me in the cot. 5min later, TA-DA, I'm out and racing around the house on all fours like Ayrton Senna. (4 legs were still faster than 2 at that point in time).
Mum places me again in the cot, wondering how I got out and again, 5min later, TA-DA.
Mother closely examines my jail. Everything is intact and working normally. Mother is very puzzled. Cute 'I' are too fat/fluffy/cuddly/cute (take your pick) to fit though the bars, and I lack X-men mutant power of pass though solid object. Moreover, I'm too short and lacked the upper body strength of a rock climber to vertically scale the walls of my family imposed prison (and the comparative base jump from the top of the cot to the floor would definitely make a hell of a noise, both the impact and resulting waterfall from the eyes, not to mention I lacked the proper equipment to execute such a feat)
How the hell are you getting out, my mother pondered as yet again she places me in my cage. (cue, Soundgarden, break my rusty cage, and run)
Cue Mission Impossible soundtrack. Mother decides to go super spy, dashes out of the house, skirts the walls, and sneaks, SNEAKS (can't trust anybody these days) up to my bedroom window. She peers in through my window and waits. SPYING on me. Talk about invasion of privacy.
In the cot I lie. Biding my time to execute my master plan to yet again break out into the freedom of the hallway. Mother watches, patiently.
Lured into a false sense of security the baby 'I' do a 180, and head to the end of my jail cell. I grasp one of the bars in my chubby mitts, and begin to...UNSCREW! yeah I know, unreal right? Unscrew the bar! After a few turns, Houdini pushes the bar out, creating sufficient space for the master escape artist to squeeze through. But wait, the master is not done, oh no. He turns, pushes the bar BACK into place and turns the bar a few times, effectively screwing it back into place before toddling off into the hallway with a huge smile on his face.
Cue Mel Gibson "FreeeeeeDommmmmmmmmm"
Bugger me, I have no idea how I figured that out, but I also wonder how they ever figured out 'the death touch pressure point', trial and error? Hmm, how about here, 'bam dead', oh yep, that's the spot....
Taking matters into her own hands, mother procures a tube of superglue, fixes the so called problem (damn fascist, depriving me of my freedom). So the next time I try my little escape trick I am met with fierce resistance. The result, I remain trapped, mother gets peace and quiet, well...at least after I've stopped bawling my guts out and pouting that I can no longer escape.
We lived in Wellington, (or in it's vicinity) small house, front yard, back yard etc. Not much in the the way of furnishings, hey, we no rich eh? Anyway, mother dearest would put yours truly in ones cot, so that mother could get some relaxation time without having to worry that I was stalking a kettle power cord dangling from the kitchen bench. I swear, the 'don't pull' signs only encourage people to in-fact, PULL.
So, mum puts me in the cot. 5min later, TA-DA, I'm out and racing around the house on all fours like Ayrton Senna. (4 legs were still faster than 2 at that point in time).
Mum places me again in the cot, wondering how I got out and again, 5min later, TA-DA.
Mother closely examines my jail. Everything is intact and working normally. Mother is very puzzled. Cute 'I' are too fat/fluffy/cuddly/cute (take your pick) to fit though the bars, and I lack X-men mutant power of pass though solid object. Moreover, I'm too short and lacked the upper body strength of a rock climber to vertically scale the walls of my family imposed prison (and the comparative base jump from the top of the cot to the floor would definitely make a hell of a noise, both the impact and resulting waterfall from the eyes, not to mention I lacked the proper equipment to execute such a feat)
How the hell are you getting out, my mother pondered as yet again she places me in my cage. (cue, Soundgarden, break my rusty cage, and run)
Cue Mission Impossible soundtrack. Mother decides to go super spy, dashes out of the house, skirts the walls, and sneaks, SNEAKS (can't trust anybody these days) up to my bedroom window. She peers in through my window and waits. SPYING on me. Talk about invasion of privacy.
In the cot I lie. Biding my time to execute my master plan to yet again break out into the freedom of the hallway. Mother watches, patiently.
Lured into a false sense of security the baby 'I' do a 180, and head to the end of my jail cell. I grasp one of the bars in my chubby mitts, and begin to...UNSCREW! yeah I know, unreal right? Unscrew the bar! After a few turns, Houdini pushes the bar out, creating sufficient space for the master escape artist to squeeze through. But wait, the master is not done, oh no. He turns, pushes the bar BACK into place and turns the bar a few times, effectively screwing it back into place before toddling off into the hallway with a huge smile on his face.
Cue Mel Gibson "FreeeeeeDommmmmmmmmm"
Bugger me, I have no idea how I figured that out, but I also wonder how they ever figured out 'the death touch pressure point', trial and error? Hmm, how about here, 'bam dead', oh yep, that's the spot....
Taking matters into her own hands, mother procures a tube of superglue, fixes the so called problem (damn fascist, depriving me of my freedom). So the next time I try my little escape trick I am met with fierce resistance. The result, I remain trapped, mother gets peace and quiet, well...at least after I've stopped bawling my guts out and pouting that I can no longer escape.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)