BIRD-man is a God!

WE DARE YA!!

We (from left to right: Me, Gary, Ron and Dave) bet our friend "Birdman" $5 each that he couldn't get this nice woman to kiss him on the lips within 10 minutes. Simply put: We each lost five damn dollars.

Because of his ability to attract ugly women, I'd like to dedicate this blog to our good friend, the Birdman.

Background: Birdman was given his nickname because of his unique ability to dance like a bird when fully soused. He becomes loud, obnoxious, and pretty much a pain-in-the-ass, but we love him like a brother.

Situation: Fall, 2004 we were on a winery tour. When we go to the winerys, it's an all weekend event and we usually ruin shirts, pants, livers, and a couple expensive wine goblets. The guys goal is to get the gals drunk enough that they kiss passionately... of course we get pretty drunk in the process, but us guys don't kiss. (Well, not that we can remember anyway.) Last fall, everyone was coupled with a hot chick (a.k.a. our wonderful wives) except Birdman so we decided to help him hook up. Actually, the man of bird doesn't need any hooking up, he just doesn't realize it... so we stepped in for a friend.

Results: Birdman truly flew over the Cuckoo's nest by putting on the classic, "I'll even wear your feathers, because they make you look so sexy" move. It worked so well, the Birdman scored three generations of feather-wearing purple hatted dames. It was grandma's 70th birthday party and before she was done blowing the candles Birdman had all of them dancing and hugging him. Pure birdshit. Coincidentally, three wineries later we ran into his flock again and had to listen to him sing-- and wear his beak. We deserved a refund on our $5 bet.

Then he REALLY went overboard... he took our gals, too!

Where is Birdman? Last seen he was running in front of the truck with his pants down.

This blog's for you, O' lover of life. You keep us laughing so we'll see you for our 2005 Spring Winery run...

Weekend Drinks

Three drinks I became particularly fond of this weekend:

1) Redbull and Stoli's (I like the strawberry flavour)

2) Flaming Drambuie shots

3) Water.

Now, off to cure the world...

Gimme Another Twinkie!

After my sister Jackie's suprise 40th birthday party last night (with plenty of hooch) nothing sounded better this morning than "feasting with the fat" at the Cracker Barrel. Briefly, we amused ourselves by acknowledging the following:

1) "Lady Corpulent" wearing an impressive yellow-and-black bumblebee suit. Missing? Her tentacles.

2) A lovely fat jogger that apparently avoided looking in the mirror to realize that her terry-cloth mint green-and-pink jogging suit clashed with anything on God's earth. She obviously thinks it is okay to consume 18 bazillion calories since she had such a good work out getting off her recliner.

3) Mr. & Mrs. Bigbutt and the twins-- Chubby and Bertha.

4) A McDonnell Douglas retiree that has never updated his fatman tie collection.

5) and engraved forever in my visual brain is the pig in spandex... enough said.

Thanks goes out to our new friends Aiden and Angie for putting up with my hung-over sarcasm.

"I need to see some ID"

I was in Wal-Mart one day (yes, even I shop there) purchasing a $17 and-some-change item on credit when the cashier looks at the back of my card and says, "I need to see some I.D." It just happens that I did not have my driver's license with me, leaving myself completely ... unidentifiable.

"Why do you need to know who I am, my name is listed on the front of that card."
"Yes, but it is not signed."
"That is because I could not find a pen that would sign plastic, do you have one?"
"Sure," she said as she handed me a marks-alot.
I grabbed the card, signed it, and handed it back.
"I can't accept this."
"Why?"
"How do I know it's your signature?"
"You just saw me sign it."
"I mean, I don't know it's the signature of the person on this card."
"I *AM* the person on the front of that card."
"I'm sorry sir."
"Can I speak to a manager?!"
"I *AM* the manager."
"Prove it."
"My badge ... SUPERVISOR"

[pause to appreciate dumbshits in the world...]

"Can I use my card as debit?"
"Sure."
"Thanks."

Hey, fill out a form!

The IRS estimates it will take 194 hours to complete form 1040...

Okay, if it takes 8-something days (estimated average) to fill out a single form, how is the average schmuck like me supposed to get it done the night before it's due?! (Actually, it was due last year... but I filled the form for an extension on the extended extension.) I called the IRS today (800) 829-1040 because I had a question. Yeah, I said, "I HAD A FUCKING QUESTION." An estimated one-hundred-ninety-four hours to prepare a 1-page form (with 18 pages of schedules) and I finally broke down and called them with one simple question:

"If a company 1099-misc'd my personal TIN and I placed those monies into my corporate account (with a different TIN) which then 1099-misc's my SSN, how do I account for the monies reported earned by my personal TIN when I reported it earned as corporate?"

Official answer: "Hold please, while I transfer you to that department."

Here's my solution:

1. Make forms that take less than an hour so we'll file on time.
2. Assume we have the reading ability of a 7 year old so we don't have to ask questions.
3. Fire everyone that answers (or lacks answers) from the 800 number so that we,
4. Can use that money to pay off the countries deficit.

I did get connected to the correct departement. His answer was "to document everything."

I asked him which form I should use and he asked it I would mind holding while he transferred me...

Golf and Grandpa

Here's a personal memory of my wise golfing grandpa Williams.

Growing up, my grandfather seemed quiet. When I was 5 years old, my memories don't include anything spectacular of him-- just the usual grandpa stuff: Getting up early and reading the Tribune and some Mechanic's Local paper by his perculator, taking Sunday drives into the country (which was just about anything west of Berkely), and ignoring grandma. When I was 13, his neighborhood in Pine Lawn was quickly becoming a ghetto so my grandparents moved West near the St. Peters Golf course. I thought his new house was pretty neat, but we were no longer allowed to throw Lawn Jarts (a.k.a. death darts), and our old friend Joe C. was no longer close enough to bring silver dollars to my sister and I when he'd visit us at the old house. It's odd that I knew Old Joe for all my life, but I can't remember his last name... It was something polish with -ski on the end. Cozowski? Hmm, just "old Joe C."

At the new house, my grandpa took up golfing. Every day he'd be out from sun-up to sun-down. Up at dawn, cup O' perculated java, scan the Globe Democrat, and off to the course. Grandma made breakfast on weekends when my sister and I would stay. You know, the breakfasts grandmas always make: Fried eggs anyway she felt like making them, two loafs of toast, sausage patties, links, bacon and hash browns with a bowl of flavorless oatmeal on the side. Grandma always had that thick milk with cream that floated at the top and gave us mustaches. I could choke down milk, but we all knew to pass the oatmeal...

One weekend when I was 16, I decided to get up early with Grandpa and share some coffee. This must contribute to my current morning coffee crave... my way to keep in touch with my memories of grandpa Williams. After dumping 3-seconds-worth of real sugar from the glass sugar jar (like the ones you see in Waffle House), and half a cup of grandma's milk in my coffee, I generated the perfect mocha sugar latte. I asked grandpa why he played golf everyday since he retired and he smiled, pulled me to his garage, and quickly pieced together an interesting combo of sticks.

He introduced me to all the retired guys and told them it was time for me to learn why men play golf. He handed me a cigar, a handfull of tees, and told me to keep two balls in my pocket... "just in case." He lit his cigar, looked down the fairway, and teed up his first ball. He took time to notice the color of the leaves and the dew on the grass. He had kind of a smirk on his face when he pointed out the ducklings on the pond and he warned me about the "damn squirrel" by the dogleg ahead that steals golf balls before you get to it. He butted his driver up against the ball, adjusted his arms to a comfortable angle and then I noticed his right thumb gently rubbed the top of his grip as if the leather was velvet. He stared at the ball with an intensity I'd never seen before without looking up taught me how to play really good golf: "Michael... your grandmother and I have been married for over 25 years. Every single damn day, I've had to listen to her bitch about almost everything. She nags, and nags, and nags and I can't hardly stand it. I come out here every morning and put this little white ball on the tee. I find my grip, bring back the club... and I smash that ball as hard and as far as I can!" As the ball floated about 5 feet above the fairway and disappeared around the bend he looked at me and said, "It's a great feeling and it's kept your grandmother and I together."

I learned that golf is not about score, it's about keeping sanity and finding the ball-stealing squirrel. I guess one out of two isn't bad...