A Boy and His Plant

It’s tough for me to say this, but I suspect that my seven year-old son may be turning into a dork.

Oh, I saw the signs, but I ignored them. Twice, he’s corrected me about the correct pronunciation of words in “Star Wars” movies, once so savagely that I burst into tears.

“Well, excuse me, George Lucas Jr.,” I cried. “You’re such an expert. Maybe you can explain why fraternal twins Luke and Leia were kissing in the first movie?”

And then I ran out of the room like a girl.

But that was nothing compared to now. For the last two days, my son has been carrying a plant around everywhere. That's right - a plant. An Ivy of some kind in a plastic pot. I know it's an Ivy because when I said, "Hey, what's with the Fern?", he snapped back, "It's not a Fern. It's an Ivy."

"Well, excuse me, Mr. GreenThumb Jr...," I began, but he had already walked off. A boy and his plant.

My wife has urged me to be understanding. It turns out that Gabriel spent his own allowance purchasing the plant and was so attached to it that he insisted that his new green, leafy friend come with him to dinner, to bed and then to school the next morning.

Oh, yeah. Nothing dorky about that.

Maybe I'm just jealous. Fathers often get jealous when their sons assert their independence, break away and form their own attachments with...plants.

Senate Caught Mass Debating

The older I get, the less interested I get in politics. But yesterday I walked into my living room and caught the United States Senate mass debating on television. You can imagine my surprise and embarrassment.

I'm trying to be mature about this. I realize mass debating is a natural and beautiful thing. I, myself, have mass debated on occasion. Heck, my face glows red every time I remember the time my dad walked in on me and caught me filibustering.

But this is different. Yesterday, the Senate was mass debating about whether they should mass debate. And once you catch yourself mass debating about mass debating, it's time to get some help. Senators, here's how to tell if you have a problem:

1. Are you an adult? While it's natural for young children to use mass debating as a tool to explore themselves, we pretty much expect you to stop doing it once you grow up. And, unless you're a porn star or Paris Hilton (or both), you're not allowed to do it on television. Ever.

2. Do you find that you prefer mass debating to active, two-way legislation with other people? Most politicians find that actually passing laws, while more time consuming and difficult to consummate, eventually leads to a more satisfying relationship for both the politician and his or her constituents.

3. Have you ever voted against discussing the non-binding resolution you actually introduced? I'm talking to you, John Warner. Are you mass debating in order to avoid facing up to the fact that you're, uh, bi-partisan? My advice? Don't fight it. Being bi-partisan doesn't carry the same stigma it used to. I, in fact, faked bi-partisanship in college in order to meet girls.

Senators, if you answered "yes" to any of the questions above, you may have a problem. Don't rely on your peers for help. Some senators I won't name (Hillary Clinton) may have unpleasant memories of a time when more mass debating - and less constituent interaction - might have helped another politician I won't name (Bill Clinton). We (the American people) strongly urge you to seek help before our Congress is known for nothing other than its mass debating.

Method 21

Sometimes I find myself being accidentally creepy. To wit:

Last weekend, I had time to kill before heading to a friend's birthday celebration at a local Hooter's restaurant. That's not supposed to be the creepy part, people, so try not to get ahead of the story. It just so happens that Hooter's offers a fine selection of quality food at fair prices. Sure, this food is served by women wearing jogging shorts and panty hose with socks, but it's important to realize that our waitresses genuinely like spending time with us. We're not anything like the losers that normally go to Hooter's.

Hmmm. I'm starting to see your point. Let's move on.

Anyway, I had an hour to kill before the party at Hooters. Some part of me instinctively realized that the only thing sadder than a group of middle-aged men at Hooters is one middle-aged guy sitting at Hooters, so I headed to a nearby Target store to look around. Mostly, I read magazines without paying for them. I read golf magazines. I read video game magazines. I even read Cosmopolitan magazine because apparently there are 20 different ways you can satisfy a man and I only knew three of them. Coincidentally, none of the 20 ways involves a Hooters.

After about 20 minutes, I noticed that I wasn't the only person killing time at Target. There was an elderly woman in the magazine aisle with me. Apparently, she had also run out of reading material because she held a Maxim magazine and was definitely eyeing my Cosmo. No dice. I was only on method 11.

There was also a couple goofing around with the home theater systems in the electronics section. In the 30 minutes I was in the store, I bumped into the couple at least three times. Like me, they didn't appear to be buying anything. After reading about method 20, I decided to leave Target and kill time elsewhere. I drove toward the Hooters.

Now, you can cue the creepy music.

On the way, I spotted an adult novelty store that I've heard advertised on the radio. It's supposed to be classy place and I suddenly felt insanely curious about what the store looked like inside. All the usual things went through my mind. What if someone I know sees me going inside? What if someone sees me looking at some strange device and assumes that I'm interested in it? How sad is it to see a middle-aged guy by himself in an adult novelty store?

I calmed myself by saying the usual things. I'm an adult. I'm not doing anything illegal. Besides, the chances of running into someone I know are astronomically low.

This thought turned out to be weirdly prescient.

My first impulse was to park in front of one of the other stores, but I fought this cowardly impulse and parked right in front of the store. I boldly stepped out of my vehicle and entered the door. Everyone looked up when I entered the bright store. I quickly registered two things: first, this place wasn't classy. It had the high checkout counters and hand written signs you only see in adult stores. Second, the couple that I saw at Target had decided to come here, too.

All three of us went beet red with embarrassment. A second later, I got a horrific feeling in my gut. What are the chances that two separate parties would waste time by first going to a Target store and then independently follow that up by going to the same adult novelty store within minutes? That would be an astronomical long shot. Were they following me?

Then it hit me. They were here first. Omigod, I thought. I look like a creepy stalker. I looked like some dude who had easily skated through methods 1 through 20 and was now busily trying to invent method 21. The only thing that could have made the moment stranger was if I had walked in with the elderly, Maxim-reading woman.

For a moment, I had the urge to talk to the couple. I wanted to explain how I was just this regular guy who was spending the night innocently reading Cosmo and hanging out at adult novelty stores before joining his friends at Hooters...

I decided to leave instead.

Now, That's Amazing!

So, this is the kind of week that my wife had:

She decided to visit an upscale vitamin store near our city's center in order to buy a natural remedy of some kind. I've never been there, but my wife describes it as a holistically beautiful store with quiet, soothing music and delicious fragrances wafting through the air. It's like a Starbucks but with more drugs. My wife was so intent on getting her natural remedy that she broke the cardinal rule for preserving soothing, relaxing environments.

She took my my kids.

I'd like to say it started out well, but it didn't. My four year-old son skipped into the store happily, took a moment to get oriented in the beautifully designed, healthy environment and then he vomited. Literally. We have no idea why. Strangely enough, the health professionals at the store were not happy to see this potential client and when my family left, my wife looked behind to see a salesperson propping open the door to let air in.

A few days later, our family went to a pizza parlor. A friend of my seven year-old son accompanied us. During the middle of the meal, while the kids played with Star Wars action figures, Gabriel's friend entertained us with a rap song. I didn't listen closely at first, because I'm a Public Enemy fan and I like to kick it old school. Also, by now I think the shorties understand I'm the sickest MC.

Still, on his second time through the rap, I noticed that my wife and most of the other patrons in this restaurant were staring in the direction of this kid. And that's because one of his rhymes has just ended with the word "whore". Later, after my red-faced wife had explained why that word is bad, she whispered to me, "I'm amazed at what comes out of kid's mouths these days."

I shrugged because this sounded like something an old person would say.

A few days later, my family and I sat down at another restaurant. The food was great. My two year-old daughter Riley loved the food most of all. She ate all of her fries, she ate most of her grilled cheese sandwich and she even helped herself to a generous portion of Julian's macaroni and cheese.

Then Riley turned to my wife and started upchucking on her. This was no regular upchucking either. It manifested itself like an elaborate magic trick. Everything came out compartmentalized, neat and in reverse order. First, the mac and cheese came, followed by the grilled cheese. Then we saw some of lemonade Riley had quaffed just after her fries. Finally, the fries came out, too. It was like someone had drilled a core sample on my daughter's stomach and neatly deposited a geographic history of her meal in my wife's lap.

My wife looked really stressed while she cleaned up the mess and I wanted to say something helpful.

"You were right," I said.

"About what?" she asked as she grabbed extra napkins.

"It really is amazing what comes out of kids' mouths these days."

Terrifying Amish Games

Most parents are dismayed by the amount of time kids spend online, watching television or playing video games. Not me. I prefer that they relax with some "Grand Theft Auto". I encourage them to watch MTV's "Cribs". Heck, I encourage them to steal my credit card and play online poker.

My reasoning is simple: If technology doesn't entertain my kids, they get all Amish on me and start making up their own terrifying, non-tech games.

It's true. One of my favorites so far has been the classic "Ask Dad a Question While He's on the Toilet" game. The rules are simple. Ignore Dad until he goes into the bathroom and locks the door. Wait for the fan to come on and then start messing with door knob. When he yells, "I'm in here!," start asking questions. The first question should always be "Dad, what are you doing?," but any question after that is fair game.

Now that my children are 7,4, and 2 respectively, they've designed a terrifying new game to play when they're not watching television. It's called "Let's Catch Mommy and Daddy Doing It".

Warning: the rest of this essay may include frank discussion of the ways that parents express their love for each other. The mental images generated by this kind of discussion can result in light sensitivity, motion sickness or seizures. Before reading on, try saying a sentence that includes the phrases "my parents" and "open-mouthed kiss". If this makes you a little queasy, please do not continue.

Editor's Note: I, for instance, tasted a little Hamburger Helper just writing that sentence. But I will soldier on.

"Let's Catch Mommy and Daddy Doing It" is, at its core, a hunting game. Any time you suspect your mother or father are sharing a moment of intimacy, it is your job to track them down, bypass any obstacles they've set up, burst in and destroy any sense of privacy that they've built.

My kids are good at this game and getting better. I want to explain to them that winning this game might ultimately scar them for life. I want to explain that even their mother and I feel uncomfortable being there, but we sorta have to be. My kids can win this game, but only in the sense that the Nazis won when they discovered the Lost Ark of the Covenant.

I hope they come to their senses before it's too late. Meanwhile, the hunt goes on.

Me: Did you lock the bedroom door, the outer bathroom door, the inner bathroom door and the front door?
Wife: Check.
Me: Did you turn on that "South Park" episode we never wanted them to watch, threaten them with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and close their door?
Wife: Of course I did. I also turned on our radio, stuffed shirts under the door and spent the entire week practicing how to enjoy myself without raising my voice above a whisper.
Me: Good....wait...what was that noise? Was that the door knob? Omigod! I think they're breached the outer perimeter!
Wife: Oh god! They just keep coming. Why won't they leave us alone? What do they want? Aaaaaaaaaaiiaiaiaiaiia.....

Final Editor's Note: Sorry about the graphic imagery in this post, but I would like to point out that I'm the first writer in the history of the world to ever use the phrases "Amish", "Nazis" and "open-mouthed kiss" in the same piece. People better recognize.

Waxy Ellis Island

I have many good excuses for why I haven't updated in a few weeks, but the best one is this:

I have been growing a beard and it's taken all of my concentration.

I know. I know. I also thought that beard growing was a hands-off process. One simply stopped shaving and before long one had a beard that would make Grizzly Adams look on in shame and cause two thirds of ZZ Top to blush with envy.

But I have discovered a truth. I am like a tree and my beard is like moss - it will not grow on one half of my face. After two weeks of dedicated growing, my left cheek sports a burly mountain man look and my right cheek...well, it looks like the right cheek of a high school sophomore who's trying to grow a beard. A female high school sophomore who's trying to grow a beard, actually.

This bothered me at first. It's not like I lack the follicles to produce hair. In fact, if I quit pruning my right eyebrow, right ear and right nostril, I'm fairly sure hair would o'er run the right side of my face like Kudzu in Georgia.

Until now, in fact, I've wondered why I started growing hair is those places and now I know. The follicles left my cheek and immigrated to new lands. I have immigrant follicles and my ears are like a really, really waxy Ellis Island.

I'm assuming these immigrant follicles are growing hair in places where the original hairs refused to grow hair. Naturally, this demands some sort of political intervention or policy. I'm considering a wall...

Editor's Note: We have an actual domain now. Grim Richard's Irregulars can now be reached www.grimrichard.com. Please feel free to try out our new address...leave it on cocktail napkins in seedy bars...vandalize park benches with it.

Once a Week. Whether You Like It or Not

I’m not bragging or anything, but Grim Richard gets a fair amount of e-mail and comments. True, most of this correspondence has the subject line “Four Inches in Six Months!”, but that’s indicative of nothing in particular. The readers in Grim Richard’s life haven’t had anything to complain about (wink) if you know what I mean.

Why? Have you heard something?

Actually, some of our readers have commented about the frequency of my posts and apparently my wife agrees because after reading my last entry, she casually dropped this bomb:

“You should write one of these every day.”

She smiled when she said this. I believe she regards these posts as a kind of bilious gas that builds up and must be released - followed almost immediately by an apology. I patiently explained the method to my madness.

“I used to post all the time. As I grow older, though, I’ve realized that quality is more important than quantity. So, instead of doling out a daily dose of dreck that depends mostly on double entendre and fart jokes, I like to give my readers one solid column every week on Thursday. Whether they like it or not. Unless I’m tired.”

“They have no idea how lucky they are,” my wife said dryly.

I am nothing, however, if not attentive. Commencing immediately, Grim Richard readers can subscribe to the Grim Richard notification service. Simply e-mail me at grimrichard@grimrichard.com and I’ll make sure that you get an e-mail whenever a new post goes up.

And don’t worry about being spammed. It requires a kind of dedication I’m just not willing to give.

Just ask my wife.

Great Herds of Babysitters

So my wife and I decided to go on a date. This required a baby sitter because it’s against the law to leave young children at home unless they’re shepherded by someone wiser, more stable and more logical than the tots.

Or you can pay a teenager. This is the route we chose and it was not an easy one. Any parent can tell you that babysitters are rare and hard to find – like unicorns or the Fountain of Youth. Actually, babysitters are even harder to find. You will actually stumble upon unicorns peeing in the Fountain of Youth before you find a teenager willing to accept a lot of money for watching television and occasionally yelling at the kids.

Ironically, I do this every day for free.

When I was a kid, great moving herds of babysitters used to cover the landscape. When my parents needed a babysitter, they merely stepped outside, waved our cable bill to prove we had HBO, and – BAM! – they had three or four babysitters willing to take a dollar an hour to watch three kids. The babysitting herds have largely disappeared now. I blame global warming and Chik-Fil-A.

We lucked out eventually and the daughter of a friend agreed to watch our kids. We picked the babysitter up and drove her to our house where she immediately began watching MTV. Our kids began jumping around, giddy as they pictured the amount of damage they were going to cause in the next few hours.

Before we left, my wife and I took a few bittersweet moments to walk around the house and say goodbye to the personal belongings we cherished the most. Bridget and I paused on the threshold to kiss our children and ask one last question of this rare creature called the babysitter. She didn’t answer or even look away from the television.

No doubt, like us, she was dreaming of a different time; a time when there were only twenty channels on television and only parents were allowed to exploit the cheap labor of teenagers.

Killer Pie

I haven’t posted since Thanksgiving two weeks ago, but I have an excuse. I can neither button my pants nor bend in the middle like most human beings. I think this has something to do with the 27 pieces of pumpkin pie, but I’m just guessing.

I wouldn’t have eaten that much pumpkin pie normally. During the holidays, though, I think irrationally. When I see pumpkin pie, for instance, there’s always this little voice that says, “What if it’s another year before you get another chance to eat pumpkin pie?

If I successfully ignore that voice, another ups the ante by saying, “Anything could happen between now and next year. There could be pumpkin plague for all you know. What if you never get another chance to eat pumpkin pie?”

Which brings me to killer whales.

In San Antonio recently, a killer whale at Sea World suddenly turned on his trainer and attacked him. Experts chimed in with various theories concerning hormones and – I’m not kidding about this – killer whale sexuality. Apparently, this particular animal was “approaching his breeding age.”

I’d love to see this trainer’s My Space page. “I spend a large part of my day swimming in a pool with a horny killer whale. Before I get in, though, I like to put on a black wetsuit so that the animal can’t tell whether I’m a human, a harbor seal or another, less dominant killer whale. While I’m in the pool, I force him to perform tricks before I feed him.”

Still, I have my own theory about this attack and it has little to do with sexuality and everything to do with the holidays. I can almost picture the trainer tentatively dipping his toe in the pool. I picture the killer whale across the pool nonchalantly performing flips and spins on cue. All the while, he’s thinking this:

“What if I never get another chance to eat a trainer?”

Happy Thanks-O-Ween

Thanksgiving at my house typically involves a strict egalitarian division of labor. Basically, my wife cooks all day and I eat all of it.

Many of you might consider this an unfair arrangement, pointing out that cooking food takes way more time than eating it.

And that would true under normal circumstances. But when I say that it’s my job to eat “all of the food”, I’m not exaggerating. I lack the mechanism that stops most people from eating food when their hunger is satiated. I also lack the mechanism that stops people from eating food when their hunger is satiated, their pants no longer fit and people are complaining about the smell.

Thanksgiving usually ends with Bridget washing the dishes. I watch from the floor, where I’m laid out like one of those snakes you see on the Discovery Channel – the ones that have a humongous bulge in the middle because they ate an egg whole without chewing.

Common sense tells me that I need to exercise some self-control, but I find it’s much easier to blame my genetics or the fast food industry. I’d sue someone, but there’s apple pie I haven’t finished.

This year, my wife announced that she’s not cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, we’re going to her aunt’s house to eat. We may also stop at a friend’s house and eat. This dismayed me at first, but then I realized that my wife had craftily combined aspects from two of my favorite holidays – giant dinners from Thanksgiving and the door-to-door freeloading of Halloween.

My wife’s a genius. She’s invented Thanks-O-Ween.

Danger! Death! Food Driving!

Recently, we came across a list of the 10 most dangerous foods to eat while driving. Like most modern television research, it eschewed the stupid parts of science i.e. clear methodologies, control groups, etc. and concentrated on the important stuff - like a title with the word “danger” in it.

According to the study, these were the most dangerous foods to consume while driving, listed from most dangerous to least: coffee, hot soup, tacos, chili, hamburgers, barbecued food, fried chicken, jelly or crème-filled donuts, soft drinks and, finally, chocolate.

Most news outlets were impressed by this study. Here at the Grim Richard Institute of Science, however, we use scientifically accepted methodologies to pull things out of our butt. This means that a few minutes of actual guess work can be almost alchemically transformed into hard science. Our list not only has 50% more scary words in the title, it actually includes foods that are more dangerous. Thus, we give you our own list:

The 10 Foods That Will KILL You Dead While You’re Driving

1. Lobster – C’mon. Coffee? A person drawing butter, cracking shells and tying on a bib while driving is way more likely to die than someone just drinking coffee.

2. Corn on the Cob – probably one of the most under-reported food accidents because “the cob” is usually thrown clear of the accident scene. The only sign that something food-related has occurred? Innocent bystanders are found dead with little corn-shaped cob holders stuck in their heads.

3. Fugu – Nearly 100% of people who prepare Japanese blowfish and then eat it while driving die. It’s a fact.

4. Beets – I’ve been telling my mother for years how dangerous beets are. Now, I’ve got official scientific proof.

5. Caffeinated Soda (with Pop Rocks and, uh, cyanide)

Okay, so we were reaching with that last one. Please remember, though, that actually listing 10 dangerous foods is less important than making the list short enough to be read quickly by Matt Lauer before the Today Show goes to commercial. Besides, this research isn’t about “facts”. This research is about “danger” and “death” and “food driving.”

Happy Motoring!

Cruel Mothers of the 70s

When I was young, the mothers of America regularly banded together and told children some amazingly stupid stuff. It's true. Some of it was so stupid that I like to use it on my own kids just to see their reactions.

This summer, for instance, I finally got to use this one at the water park:

"Gabriel," I yelled, "You just ate lunch. That means you have to wait 30 minutes before you go back in the water."

"Why?" he yelled back.

"Because your body can't swim and digest at the same time. if you try it, all of your swimming muscles will cramp up and you'll drown."

I still remember the incredulous look on his six year-old face. I'll treasure it forever.

This winter, I'm hoping to try out the "If you go out in the cold with your hair wet, you'll get pneumonia and die" thing.

Did my mother - and all of the other moms in America - really believe that red M&Ms caused cancer or that sitting too close to the television caused blindness?

No, I say. When I look at ancient school photos of me and my brother dressed in identical sweater vests, I have to believe that the mothers of America were just cruelly toying with us. And they will not away with it.

The other day my mom was visiting and Gabriel said this to me:

"Nanny says that the waters around Bermuda have a giant electric triangle that sinks ships and planes. Is that true?"

"No, it's not true," I said, warily watching my mother in the next room.

"Why would she lie, Dad?"

I looked at his inquisitive face. He clearly hungered for the truth.

"Every person in the world," I said, "is comprised of four special fluids called humors. Nanny's humors are out of whack."

I look both ways before drawing him closer.

"It's because she watches too much "Matlock" on television."

Ben Affleck in the Bucket

A few days ago, I was fixing cable lines in a bucket truck. For those who don’t know, a bucket truck is one of those trucks with a big, hydraulic arm that lifts workers up to the top of utility poles. Cable repair people use bucket trucks to work on anything that’s higher than about 25 feet.

When I was a five year-old kid, I used to see these trucks and think, “That is cool.” And you know what?

I was absolutely right. It is way cool. Sometimes I feel so cool in my hardhat and tool belt that I walk around the bucket truck really slow – like Ben Affleck’s character in the movie “Armageddon”. I try not to do too much of this because, frankly, slow motion walking looks stupid in real life.

The only time the bucket truck is not amazingly cool is when it’s raining and windy – like it was a few days ago when my cell phone rang. I answered it and had this conversation with my wife:

Me: What’s up?

Her: Hey, Sweetie. What are you doing?

Me: I’m in the bucket truck, 40 feet up in the air. It’s raining and windy. What do you need?

Her: Nothing. Just wanted to tell you I love you.

Me: Thank you. I love you, too. Can we talk later?

Her: Don’t you want to talk with me?

She sounds hurt and for a moment, there is total silence on the phone. I’m irritated because there is absolutely nothing I want to talk about. I want to hang up. If this was “Armageddon” and I was Ben Affleck’s character, I’d walk away in slow motion and just let stuff explode behind me.

But then it occurs to me that Ben Affleck’s character in “Armageddon” isn’t real. Maybe I should make decisions about my wife based on something other than movie characters. Walking away from explosions is stupid in real life.

“Of course, I want to talk to you,” I say into the phone. “So, what did you have for lunch?”

Real heroes, I think, run toward explosions. You know, like Keanu Reeves in “Speed”.

The Grim Richard Gazette

I'm giving up on the news. I'm officially tired of it. What's the point of reading about events that you can't possibly effect or change? Consider the the last presidential race, for instance. I've spent hours telling people how they should vote with little or no results to show for it. Some people - I'm not lying - even refused to tell me how they voted.

I've even tried to affect important new events directly but, to be honest, if Britney Spears takes out one more restraining order on me - she's gonna lose her biggest fan.

Po po zao, baby.

Then it hit me. If I want to affect world events, I need more of the world's events to be about me. I decided to start the world's first newspaper dedicated solely to the coverage about me, Grim Richard.

Halfway through writing my inaugural article, though, I realized that an entire newspaper would take forever to write each day - and to read. In the interest of my time-starved reader (me) and my time-starved writer (me, again) I've decided to throw out the stories entirely and just publish the headlines - which, coincidentally, makes my newspaper exactly like CNN.

Here's the first issue of the Grim Richard Gazette, the newspaper I've dedicated to covering me, meant to be read by one person, me:

Movie Usher with Zits Calls Family Man "Sir"
Man Suddenly Realizes He Is "Freakin' Old"

Studies Show Hamburger Helper Edible Without Hamburger
Tuna Helper - Not So Much

Explorer Accidentally Discovers Unexplainable Patch of Hair
Dubs It "Tufts of McCready" After Fifth Grade Science Teacher

Man Refuses to Give 110% at Work
"That's Not Even Possible," Grim Richard Testifies to Boss

Boss Predicts Possible Economic Strife
Reports 110% Chance of Grim Richard Layoffs

Man Starts Newspaper About Self
"All News is Local," He Says. "Sometimes, Really, Really, Local"

Okay, so that last one was me being kind of lazy. But with a readership of one, I think I can forgive me.

Kidonometry

They told me in school that math would be important in my daily life. So I studied geometry and algebra, but never once did teachers school me in the really important math - Kidonometry.

Here's a Kidonometry problem I solved the other day:

"A four year-old and six year-old accelerate suddenly from the kitchen. You notice that the four year-old's mouth is colored a brilliant blue. If you ask why the kid's mouth is blue, the six year-old will double his rate of speed until he reaches his room. The four year-old will stop immediately and offer no help. If all behavior remains consistent, how long will it take you to find out what the four year-old has imbibed and, more importantly, how long should the recalcitrant kids spend without television?"

The answer is fairly easy. It will take you (the parent) two minutes of panicked yelling to discover that your kid has tried to drink one of those fake ice packs that you freeze and put in a cooler. It will take another minute to read the package to discover that the Ty-D-Bowl colored stuff is non-toxic. It will take another 20 minutes to discover that the four year-old did this asinine thing because his six year-old brother dared him to do it.

Nevertheless, the correct answer to first part of the question is two minutes. As for how long the kids go without television, that's a trick question. The time spent without television is directly proportional to how long it takes me (the parent) to catch them (the sneaky bastards).

There was a pop quiz this morning.

"An hour and a half before work, you discover that a golf ball has been lodged in the drain of bathtub/shower. If x=golf ball, solve for "Who the hell did this?", "How the hell did they do it?" and "How the hell can I get the ball out of the drain?" For extra credit, calculate whether you'll be late to work.

This a tough one, because you have to work it in reverse. Yes, you'll be late for work. A plunger is the correct tool for removing golf balls from tub drains and finally, it doesn't matter who did it or how they did it because you're late for work.

I'm much better at Kidonometry than I ever was at Algebra.

Emma, Feed Mr. Wickham to the Pigs

Lately, my wife and I have watched a few movie adaptations of Jane Austen books – “Emma” and “Pride and Prejudice” in particular. I feel comfortable with all four of my readers so I feel I can share something with you:

I love Jane Austen stories. I giggle like a schoolgirl when I know one of the movies is coming on. Something about watching rich, unmarried, uptight people really resonates with me. Naturally, I don’t mention this love in public. Other guys just wouldn’t understand.

But here’s the secret. All guys love Jane Austen. Guys love Jane Austen stories so much that HBO came up with “Deadwood” – which is exactly like a Jane Austen story but a little better because there are guns and Mr. Knightly is always calling Mr. Wickham a “c*&ks$ck#r.”

And he’s right. Wickham is a “c*&ks$ck#r.” He married Elizabeth’s younger sister, Lydia, only because Mr. Darcy bribed him in order to prevent shame and humiliation from descending on the Bennett family. Secretly, Mr. Darcy loves Elizabeth.

Ahem.

I find, too, that adding some Jane Austen-like language to our daily life provides a little flavor to otherwise mundane conversations. The other day, for instance, I ran across my wife just as I left the bathroom.

“It is my earnest endeavor,” I said, “to demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship. And in performing those rites and ceremonies of marriage caution the lady against premature passage through pernicious doors.”

She looked at me for a moment. “Does that mean you stunk up the bathroom and I shouldn’t go in there?”

“Indeed,” I said.

Jane Austen, rest easy. Grim Richard has your back.

It's Pronounced Nah-No-Bite

This is the deal that I have with my cell phone company. I give them money every month. In return, the company gives me spotty service and occasionally turns off my number for no reason whatsoever. Also, when I visit the company in person, the customer service people make me wait in an hour-long line.

I apparently like this deal because I keep signing two year contracts.

This arrangement was frustrating until I learned that there is a proper way to visit your cell phone store. There is a way to shorten the amount of time you wait in line and achieve some actual customer satisfaction. Simply put, you take a few ill-behaved kids with you. Me? I just happen to have a couple of those laying around my house.

Let's say my cell phone has mysteriously stopped displaying numbers on the screen. The first thing I do is to feed my four year-old son and two year-old daughter cookies for breakfast. Then, when my wife is not watching, we play a quick game I like to call "Who Can Drink Daddy's Coffee?" . Shortly after that, I let the kids watch "Ed, Edd and Eddy" because it puts them in the right frame of mind.

Then we go to my cell phone store. We arrive early, but there's still a line. That's not a problem because my kids need time to...percolate. I take a number and sit down. I am 19th in line.

"Hey, kids," I say. "Who wants to go to the toy store after we're through here?"

I look around and see all the women in the room smiling at me. They see a father lovingly guiding his two rambunctious young children. But they're wrong. I have no real control over my children now. As far as my kids are concerned, I'm just a giant talking wallet with set of car keys. Ironically, this is the exactly how my cell phone company views me.

I once read an article about nano-technology. Scientists are working on building tiny, never-sleeping robots that can disassemble and reassemble things on a molecular level. My kids, when they're bored, are exactly like that - only without the reassemble part. My kids start with signs at the front of the store and quickly move to cell phone models that line the cheery, modern kiosks.

Every now and then, I say, "No. Stop. Don't." But I don't mean it - not really.

Within minutes, I move from 19th to number one. No one complains.

The customer service agent eyes me warily and says, "I think your son is peeing in our fake plants."

I shrug. "Unfortunately, my wife and I cannot guarantee parental coverage in all areas. Please try again later."

A few minutes later, I'm walking out with a kid under each arm and new cell phone. From behind me, I can hear the manager.

"Your daughter broke one of our flip phones. It will need to be replaced."

"Yeah, she broke mine, too," I say without turning around. "You should really look into cell phone insurance. It comes in handy."

Apply This Blog Directly to Forehead

Every now and then you see something that screams "innovation". Every now and then you see something that smacks you in the head and demands that you bow to one knee because you are in the presence of genius.

This is probably not one of those things. This will probably be merely interesting. Sort of.

I refer, of course, to my new favorite commercial for my new favorite product - Head On. For those you haven't seen the commercial, I'll sum it up. The commercial shows only one thing, a woman applying what looks like a huge tube of lip balm to her forehead. While she does this, a spokeswoman says "Head On - apply directly to the forehead." And, in case you miss the meaning, the makers of the commercial have helpfully added a big yellow arrow pointing roughly to the area of the woman's forehead and the tube of stuff she's applying there. And then, they repeat the clip.

Here's the mildly interesting part - never once does anyone make an actual claim about what Head On actually does. Is it for headaches? I don't know. Is it sunscreen? I don't know. In effect, this commercial is the purest commercial ever made. It says, "Hey, we've got a product. Just buy it."

Grim Richard's Irregulars has always strived for the same heights in mediocrity. The very title admits that sometimes I get around to posting, and sometimes I don't. In fact, Grim Richard's may be the only blog ever that has held a contest, reviewed entries and awarded a prize without ever getting around to publishing the results of that contest. In fact, I'm not even sure if the winner knew why I sent him a package in the mail.

Que Sera, Homeys.

So apply this directly to your foreheads. I have been inspired to place an ad banner campaign for Grim Richard's Irregulars (maybe inspired is too strong a word. Maybe induced is better). But I don't want the ads to send people running to our beloved site. I want our perspective readers to barely feel the urge to click on the ad banners and come to our site - a feeling that's probably familiar to many of our readers.

That's right. It's another contest. Write a blurb for a Grim Richard's Irregulars ad banner in the style of the Head On commercial. The winner will have their copy used (eventually, without any sort of compensation, naturally) on an ad banner on another site. Here's a few pieces of copy I thought of:

• Grim Richard's Irregulars. It's a blog. You read it.
• Grim Richard's Irregulars. You might like it. You might not.
  

And finally, my favorite is a white ad banner that says, "Huh? What?"

Send those ideas to grimrichard@gmail.com. Or don't. Whatever.

My Oil Rigs Bring All the Boys to the Loft

My 40th birthday is on the horizon. In honor of that auspicious occasion, my in-laws had a high definition television delivered to our house and set up in our loft room by professionals. I mention this for a couple of reasons.

First, if you've naively entered your in-laws in this year's National Cool In-Laws Competition, I urge you to un-register them now. That contest has been won handily by my in-laws. Better luck next year.

Second, I want to acknowledge that, since I work for a cable company, I probably should have gotten one of these new-fangled high def sets much earlier than this. Perhaps I didn't because I'm old and easily confused by the rapidly moving images, confound it. Let's take MTV, for instance. Who is Kelis? Why does she make such a good milkshake that all the boys come to her yard? Just what is in those damn milkshakes?

I have no idea.

All I know is that high definition television is hypnotic. My family and I spent an hour last night watching a PBS documentary on oil rigs. At least I think they were oil rigs. I didn't really pay attention to what the narrators were saying, but I did see lots of beautiful red pipes and shiny oil.

Oh, I noticed one other thing about the new high definition television. My two year-old daughter Riley wants to bust it.

I see her edging closer to it every time I'm out of the room. I see her flexing her tiny hands in anticipation of touching the fragile screen. I can see her mind wrestling with important questions. Will she, for instance, begin by smearing on a tomato-based sauce of some kind or perhaps lay out a base underpainting of natural skin oil?

I realize now why I didn't get a high def television sooner.

Broccoli Afro, Vegetable Nemesis

I watched my son Gabriel hack and struggle through the greeny goodness of his broccoli the other day. He took a few moments to explain his ground rules for the vegetable.

"Mom says I have to eat the leaves, but I don't have eat the whole tree."

And true to his word, he was busily deforesting his forest of broccoli, chewing off the soft little leaves which comprised maybe a quarter of each broccoli stalk and leaving the huge fallen trunks to be thrown away.

In other words, my son only eats the part of the broccoli that I used to refer to as the "broccoli Afro". I do not use this designation any more because it is potentially offensive and because I'm terrified that one of my children will go to school and announce, "My dad says that I have to eat Afros because they're good for me."

Parents have interesting phobias.

I can't blame Gabriel for being cautious about vegetables. It turns out that everyone in the world has vegetable nemesis. Mine is beets. Put a plate of those purple bastards in front of me and I'll writhe and cry and possibly even throw up. And that's just from seeing them. I am constantly amazed that the only food really, really healthful for us is the food that no one really, deep down, likes eating.

While I considered this, I took Gabriel's forest of half-eaten broccoli trees down off the table and put them in the dog's dish. The dog came over for a second, sniffed the broccoli and gave me a look that said, "Sorry, dude, but I only eat the leaves."

It occurs to me that my dog will eat her own vomit, but she will not eat broccoli.

When I was young and wouldn't eat my beets, my grandmother used to talk about how much she liked vegetables, beets in particular.

She was lying.