The Captain's (B)log

Archive for the category “Holidays”

Christmas Observations

I support the true meaning of Christmas as Jesus birthday etc… but I’m here today to talk about pretty much everything else 😛

Christmas was best when I used to believe in Santa Claus… what I wouldn’t give to be 18 again… I still hold a grudge against the chubby, nonexistent charlatan. Santa is Satan misspelled…I’m on to you, Fatman. YAY! Let’s wrap cheap electric lights around our dead indoor tree and get ready for the guy to break into the house while we’re sleeping!  It may be hard to believe by the tone of this post but… I actually love Christmas. No matter how old you are, bubble wrap is pseudo gunfire and an empty Christmas wrapping paper tube is still a sword. What else could inspire someone to spend an ungodly amount of time untangling a 6 dollar strand of Christmas lights they bought 10 years ago.

And what is this ‘Happy Holiday‘ crap? Dave Barry put it best when said “In the old days, it was not called the Holiday Season; the Christians called it ‘Christmas’ and went to church; the Jews called it ‘Hanukka‘ and went to synagogue; the atheists went to parties and drank. People passing each other on the street would say ‘Merry Christmas!’ or ‘Happy Hanukka!’ or (to the atheists) ‘Look out for the wall!”

I plan on going and getting a real tree this week. I’ve never had one before because my parents didn’t believe in putting one up… hope it doesn’t end up like Amy Winehouse. Dead, 5 ft 6, and surrounded by needles before Christmas. There is an upside though. At least I’m not so poor that I have to decorate my Christmas tree car air freshener.

Ah Christmas… with your confusing carols (We Three Kings of Porridge and Tar? Recently corrected on that one) and frantic last-minute shopping. If not for Christmas companies would have to invent another holiday causing one and all to spend more than they make all year in one month.

In conclusion to this random escapade into the red, green and white rainbow that is Deember 25th, I bid you Merry Christmas. Should you lack mistletoe… may you always kiss under the influence.



R.I.P. Mr. Playa

 In the spirit of the Christmas season… what’s the difference between Santa and Chuck Norris? Mr. Claus only has 3 ho’s  😉

I’ve been characterized as quite the player of late. Due to my natural charm, dashing good looks and ever-present sense of humor… the females came pretty easy this year. By the way, if you don’t know what a player is, it is one who has the elusive ‘game’ factor or one who has game. Allow me to define it in this blow-by-blow from the show How I Met Your Mother.

Barney Stinson: Oh, Theodore. You can’t spell ‘game’ without ‘me’, and ‘me’ has the best game.
Ted Mosby: Oh, yeah? Well, I have so much game, I’m a Cornish game hen.
Barney Stinson: Well, I have so much game, I’m the New York gaming commissioner.
Ted Mosby: I have so much game, I’m The Game, well-constructed thriller starring Michael Douglas and Sean Penn.

Typical players. I can relate. They like attention but some of them can be good guys at heart too… and that’s what I always shoot for. Well to get to the point of my story… I met a girl I really like and have had to cease and desist from my untamed gallivanting. Alas… it will be missed but it’s for a good cause. She’s just an undeniably gorgeous person inside and out and I’m looking to see where this leads. Who knows? Within a month I may be back into the single scene, breaking hearts and going crazy as usual or I might be settled down a bit and doing something productive with my life. Oh and did i mention she’s a good influence on me?

In conclusion: Chuck Norris can blow bubbles with beef jerky and once kicked a horse in the chin. It’s descendants today are known as giraffes. And now time for a random episode of… what’s wrong with this picture?

A Short Story

Bob and Olga had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met. He was as tall as a 6 foot 3 inch tree and lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. She had eyes like two brown circles with big black dots in the center and a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. They were perfect for each other.

It was the 13th of July, Barbershop Music Appreciation Day and Embrace Your Geekness Day (look it up). The stage was set for an epic romance.

Bob looked up from his lonely bench and saw Olga riding her Segway through the park. She caught his eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again. Suddenly, shot’s rang out (as shots are wont to do) and our beloved Bob looked down to find a red spot spreading from his funny bone. He had been shot in the elbow… and it hurt. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall. His eyes stayed open just long enough to see the girl on the Segway turn back to investigate the sounds. Thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free. Then all went black.

Olga leaned over Bob… “Sir! Sir! Wake up!” in an attractively thick accent.

The sky had gone dark. The hailstones leaped from the pavement like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. Bob’s eyes flickered open to see her hair glistening in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze. He smiled and she smiled back. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up. When he spoke… she read his lips. Because she was deaf. She helped him up and got him to a hospital. They searched far and wide for the mysterious gunman that had brought them together but to no avail. Bob learned sign language, Olga became a ballerina and they lived happily ever after in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.


On this day sixty years ago…

April Fools! Let’s get married.
Let’s get married. April Fools!

It doesn’t take a neurosurgeon or a big CAN YOU SPOT THE DIFFERENCE section in a coloring book to realize the opposite nature of these two statements. What I am about to relate to you is a personal story of my family. A story my grandma told me years ago. The story of her marriage to my grandpa. It’s pretty short, sweet and simple.










My Grandma was in a bad situation in her home, had run away multiple times and needed to get out. She had been seeing my Grandpa for about a year. They first met at a Bible Study and hit it off immediately. I am told that he was a charming man back in the day (compared his slightly cantankerous self of late). To make a long story short they planned to get married in a year or so after they could save up and start right but her family situation forced the decision upon them. It was April Fools Day, 1951. Unaware of the date and caught up in the drama that was their life at the time, they headed to the local chapel. Their request to be married was met with a goodhearted laugh by the minister but he decided to play along.

The pastor didn’t realize he was conducting a real wedding until the end of the ceremony. My grandparents headed off on their honey moon leaving a bewildered and somewhat embarrassed man of the church. This very day marks 60 years of “hard marriage” in payment of their vows that cool April morning. They currently live less than a half hour drive away from my house and have been the best grandparents anyone could ask for. Grandma is ALWAYS encouraging me to chase my impossible dreams and Grandpa (the eternal realist) is making sure there’s a good plan in place to do so. I love them both very much.

I am posting this in honor of such character, devotion and love that made the inception of my life possible and have inspired me along it’s course. Happy Anniversary Grandma and Grandpa

I Speak Fluent Foodish

When questioning certain females as to the nature of their virtually non-existent eating habits, it quickly became evident that this was way out of my league… so naturally I took it and ran with it. I was informed that this is not a simple issue, with large words people don’t usually understand like ‘metabolism’ and ‘food‘. They couldn’t have known I have a second language. I speak fluent Foodish.

These girls are all “Oh yes I had this crumb for breakfast. Oh so delicious! And then the speck I picked off my plate for lunch? Mmm… scrumptious and that DINNER! OMG, words can’t describe how good that 1/32 of cake tasted!” Aspiring models reading Vogue Magazine and bragging about how little they ate… Really? First of all, that’s very dangerous. Everyone knows the leading cause of death among fashion models is falling through street grates.

NEWSFLASH: There’s a line in the sand between taking care of yourself and starvation. One stick figure of a friend actually gave this retort when questioned. “Well, there’s starving kids in Africa.” From personal experience, this statement will suffice as an answer for most questions on any subject… you should try it sometime! However, in THIS instance it was completely off topic. At least try to give me a slightly entertaining answer like “I’m trying to minimize my body mass so the aliens will have a harder time spotting me from space.”

Now, realistically, I can’t speak for all my sex (keep reading…) but I will do my best. I don’t claim to be a relationship expert but in the process of devastating the obvious I find it my duty to the blogosphere to give it my best shot. What man wants to hang around someone who pukes at the mention of food? That rules out like… half of our conversation topics and seeing how much you all like to talk, that’s mutually painful.

A walking coat hanger ready to faint never did anyone any good. Everyone wants to get SOMETHING out of life whether it be helping others, having fun, leaving a legacy etc (email me if you don’t want to get something out of life, you have issues). What we DO want is a real, live human being who doesn’t have to pursue their twisted view of ‘perfect’ all the time. We don’t want to have to look through a telescope to see your personality up close and personal. At the same time, we shouldn’t have to use a microscope to verify your waistline still exists.

My point isn’t as barbaric as “guys like curves”. It’s not about being the perfect model or a sex symbol. If you have to starve something, starve the ego. No one wants or needs a victim of self-image obsession, male, female, skinny or otherwise. I realize I’m targeting a select group of people with this post but it’s because there’s a very conscious choice involved. I hope that this article’s perspective has shed some new light on the subject. If so, this gentleman has accomplished his goal.

National Potato Chip Day!

It’s March 14th ladies and gentlemen. Know what that means? (No peeking at the title of this post!). Well, mathematical genius Albert Einstein, actor Michael Caine and comedian/actor Billy Crystal were born on this day but who cares right? I am talking about NPCD and no, not the National Association of Parish Catechetical Directors OR Narcissistic Personality Complex Disorder… this is National Potato Chip Day. Why does this concern you? We’ve all eaten a potato chip at some point and time and just like the birthplace of our beloved Barack Obama you want to know where potato chips came from. Now…the prestigious invention of this event happened long ago… in a galaxy far, far away… no wait. I think I’m getting my wires crossed. Allow me to start over.

(Based on a true story) The year was 1853 and the day was August 24th (the reason why we celebrate NPCD on March 14th we will never know but most likely for commercial marketing reasons). The evening began inauspiciously, dark, as usual, and in all other ways your average night… who could have predicted that it would be the night George Crum (some believe he was called George Speck but I’ve heard it both ways) would invent the crispy, salty goodness that is the potato chip.

George was a chef at an elegant resort (the McDonalds of their time I am told) in Saratoga Springs, New York. He was already slightly upset at having to work the dinner shift, meaning he would miss CSI for the third consecutive week and to make it worse it was Food Critic Night. Things only went downhill when his order of French-Fried Potatoes was rejected by the critic for being “too thick”. George was a Native American Indian and had worked his whole life with one goal in mind; to become a world class chef. Rejection was too much to bear. George’s eyes hazed over and a wave of memories enveloped him…

George was eight. He had just killed his first Gecko Lizard, a rarity in the state of New York. He thoroughly understood the definition of vegetarian as an indigenous word meaning very simply “Can’t hunt.” George looked down at the limp, green reptile laying on the rock in front of him. With precise, almost surgical movements he went into action like a ninja, throwing together dashes of curry, sand, water and lizard and after 64 days of baking in the sun… it was ready.”

He let his tribe experience it first but soon Indians from hundreds of miles around were flocking to taste the Gecko goodness. Obviously, with such vast numbers, the portion of each was small but not one left without saying it was the best microcosm of lizard flesh they had ever tasted (realistically, George’s father was the Chief and enforced that last sentence to the letter). The results (however tainted) were enough to commit George to a lifetime of cookery…”

George returned from his trip down memory lane and back to the issue at hand, beginning to ponder how to deal with the Food Critic. Spitting, dirty dishwater, poison and many other (unmentionable) choices came to mind but in the end he decided on a much more sinister option… George Crum was going to do something unheard of. After much deliberation he decided to slice the potatoes so incredibly thin and bake them so crispy as to make them unable to be skewered by the diner’s fork! It was pure diabolical genius!

That will teach him!” thought George. “Ha… how dare he insult the King of Cooks! The Sultan of Simmering! The Zohan of…” He decided to put that last phrase in the mental compartment marked “Unsolved” along with why Yankee Doodle named his feather Macaroni, if mute people can burp and his quest to find the first person to look at a cow and say, “I think I’ll squeeze these dangly things here and drink what comes out.”

As George put the finishing touches on his devilish dinner he felt a vengeful satisfaction welling up inside him. It was ready. He slowly opened his mouth and uttered those fateful words….

“Order up.”

What happened next took days (and much shock therapy) for George to completely understand. Within minutes after the order first went out, a jubilant parade of both customers and waiters swarmed into the kitchen. At their head was the food critic whose order had been redone. “What do you call that extraordinary potato creation?” the critic queried. George was caught so off guard he let drop a swear word from his mouth which the crowd around him mistakenly interpreted as “Oh Chips.”

George found himself being lifted on to the shoulders of the happy mob and out into the streets to the joyful chant of “Chips! Chips! Chips! Chips!” It was not until later, after the paparazzi had cleared and the camera’s stopped flashing that he realized what he had done… August 24th, 1853. The day George Crum invented the potato chip. March 14th, 2011. The day we celebrate his genius.

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