December 24th, 2006

Loon

bummer ...

I just realized that it sure looks like this is the first time in a decade that we're not going to have pics of The Girls with Santa ... somehow a run down to a "Santa location" just hasn't been in the cards this year. That's sad. Unless, of course, The Wife manages a side-trip whilst she and The Girls are out this afternoon (I have a bazillion things to get packaged & wrapped).


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Bears

13-2

Man, two weeks in a row ... teams that should have been a cake-walk scaring the shit out of Bear fandom! Both weeks the first half went pretty much according to plan, then the bad guys come out in the 3rd and pick apart our D. This is not a good thing.

Anyway ...

  BEARS       26  
  LIONS       21  

A win's a win ... and we're up to 13-3. Next week the "ancient enemy" Green Bay Packers come to town, with possibly a chance for a wildcard spot ... hopefully that will be enough to get The Bears' attention for a good showing before the playoffs. At least Grossman went another game without turning over the ball!


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Fury

OK, so this is almost cliché ...

I just spent the better part of the Bears game trying to get this goddamn "Cavy Cage" to go together. The problem with it is that it's not really a cage, but a jury-rigged piece of crap involving parts for a shelving unit, plastic display board, and cable ties ... and the basis of it are these stupid round clips that are supposed to hold the 12x12 grid panels together. I have never been able to successfully get anything based on that sort of crap to stay together long enough to completely assemble anything, and this is certainly no exception.

This whole project is one of The Wife's BAD IDEAS (like getting Daughter #2 a full drum set for her 5th birthday). A "Cavy" is another name for Guinea Pig ... which I'm suspecting is Cat for "lunch" (see HERE for the traumatic direction I believe this is heading). I'm fully expecting that we're going to get the Cavys, The Girls will fall in love with them, and within the first six weeks, Dusty (our cat) will eviscertate the new arrivals, leaving their bloody heads out as trophies, permanently scarring my kids. But, The Wife insists that Guinea Pigs "are just so cuuuute" and points out that they are supposed to like being carried around and cuddled (not high on Dusty's list of favored activites), so will create a less-stressful environment for her. All I see (assuming that this motherfucking piece of shit excuse for "a cage" ever gets assembled) is carnage, horror, and big therapy bills down the line.

Did I mention how fucking much I hate Christmas?


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Doom

now for the hard part ...

So, Xmas eve is done, and everybody (but me, of course) is more-or-less in bed (Daughter #1 is, I believe, attempting to stay up all night to catch Santa ... I'm hoping that she'll slip off while watching idiotic TV shows in her room and I'll be able to sneak in there, turn the TV and the lights off at some point). So I need to wait until I'm sure The Girls are passed out and then drag all the presents out to the Tree.

Nothing like going through a massive charade just to LIE to you kids. Oh, wait, that pretty damn well describes religion doesn't it?

I mean, it would be one thing if we put out the presents, then had "Santa" show up to do the stockings, and maybe add a few more things, but it's such a bloody pain in the ass to have to first of all hide the gifts, then to try to silently get them out and under the tree.

I don't know what it is about Xmas ... I'm not typically a "suicidal" kind of guy, but all fucking day long I've been wanting to slash up my wrists, impale my gut with scissors, or slit my throat ear-to-ear, depending on what sharp object happened to be at hand. I don't think I've had a non-horrible Xmas since I quit drinking (21+ years ago) ... this bullshit was certainly easier to take after swilling down a fifth of gin.


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Borg

damn ...

I wonder what it feels like to actually believe in something that wasn't dark and ugly?

Unfortunately, in my experience, if it's not dark and ugly, it's very likely not real.


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