Today's story takes us way back to the kindi days. Insert the wavy dream movie effect with wooo wooo wooo.
Honestly I remember bugger all of kindi. I think the memory part of my brain wasn't fully developed yet OR I've hit my head so much and consumed umm... not good stuff to erase/nullify that memory part...thingy.
Anyone one thing I do remember is that I was a total angel in kindi. (awkward pause?) *crickets*
Ok, so I wasn't perfect, I do remember in our kindi class we all had our name on the wall. Beside our name was a series of boxes, so kinda like a wall sized Excel spreadsheet years before home computing was a possibility. In each box (corresponding to each day of the week) our teacher would place a star in it. YES A STAR! I kid you not! Unbelievable huh? Stars.
But wait, there is more! These stars may be different colours! Yes my friends, it is true. Stars of different colours. The star placed along our named row could be a gold star, indicating you were are good little bunny that day or a black star, dum dum dum, of course indicating your were less than angelic on that particular day.
As you know from previous stories, my alter ego childhood self was a rather cunning individual, and on one auspicious day whist the teacher was being distracted by my elite squad of kindi terrorists (eep, I used the T word, this blog is now being read by the NSA, CIA, FDA and Greenpeace), I (yes go ahead, cue the mission impossible soundtrack again) snuck up to the teachers desk. Picked the lock on the drawer (just kidding, no lock) open the drawer and 'borrowed' the box of black stars. I then proceeded to place all of the black stars up my arms, using them all of course.
Like clockwork, the teacher turns around to see me gleefully putting the LAST one on, too late to run for cover I boldly accept my fate. A martyr to the end. Freedom from the black stars for my people. It must have been a horrible fate since the memory of it has been suppressed by my subconscious.
It will come as no surprise then that I would on occasion desire to not go to kindi (perhaps because I did something the day before that I believed I'd be shitcanned for the next day, not sure, but it stands to reason). So like all I'd fake being sick. It's a shame that Ferris Bueller's day off hadn't been made yet, as his tips would have really helped out.
My mother being the caring and concerned mother that she is, was very worried when her darling son woke up sick. So sick in fact he felt he couldn't go to kindi. My mother readily agreed I shouldn't go if I felt so bad (and this is where I perhaps overdid it...or she was onto me right from the word go). Preparing myself to return to the sanctuary of my bed I heard "best get dressed and take you to see the doctor". Shock. I froze. I didn't know what to do or say. "I don't think I'm that bad Mum" "No no, if you're too sick for kindi you're sick enough to see the doctor" "oh, ok" Already a plan was trying to be devised in my head as to how I could fool a doctor into believing I was sick and prescribing drugs that would have no adverse side effects on a perfectly healthy young boy.
Remember the title of this tale? Mummy never lies. Yeah, well, that's a lie.
"Now remember, if we go to the doctor, and he finds out that there is nothing wrong with you, he'll take you away and you'll never see us ever again" (I was staying at my grandmother's house at the time). What made it worse was that I'd just finished reading the Pied Piper of Hamlin, so I totally believed what my mother was saying. I believed it so much that not only did I make a miraculous recovery that day and go to kindi, it also inoculated me against fake sickness throughout my primary school days too.
I think I have no way to get revenge on my mother for that one, so I'll just have to concede the point and do the same to my son when he tries to play hooky. (Get my revenge vicariously, muhahahaha)
Nope, still sucks I got duped like that.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
A taser gift for the wife
I found this funny story on the net and since it's up to my incredibly high standards of humor it gets honored with it's own spot on my blog. wooooooo.
Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife.
This was the advertisement in Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop window next to the condo we rented last month in Florida. So I went in to check it out. I saw something that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 30th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Gisele. What I came across was a 100,000 volt, pocket/purse-sized taser.
The effects of the taser were suppose to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety. WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple A batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
Awesome!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Gisele what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries,. right?!!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Tabby looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Tabby (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries, thinking to myself, "no possible way!" What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best..
I'm sitting there alone, Tabby looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it master," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION@!@$@$%!@ *!!!
I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!"
Note: If you ever feel compelled to "mug" yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative. SON-OF-A-.. that hurt like he**!!! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I'm still looking for my testicles? I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return.
Still in shock
Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife.
This was the advertisement in Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop window next to the condo we rented last month in Florida. So I went in to check it out. I saw something that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 30th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Gisele. What I came across was a 100,000 volt, pocket/purse-sized taser.
The effects of the taser were suppose to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety. WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple A batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
Awesome!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Gisele what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries,. right?!!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Tabby looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Tabby (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong? So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries, thinking to myself, "no possible way!" What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best..
I'm sitting there alone, Tabby looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, "don't do it master," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION@!@$@$%!@ *!!!
I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!"
Note: If you ever feel compelled to "mug" yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative. SON-OF-A-.. that hurt like he**!!! A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I'm still looking for my testicles? I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return.
Still in shock
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