Wrestling Dad--Special Guest Post By Author Sibling Matt Cahill
1/28/2016
One of my sons joined the wrestling team this year. Well, sort of. In your first year on the team you aren’t allowed to compete but can be a “manager”. Which means you show up early and smack around with the other managers until the “real” wrestlers show up. I’ll grant you when they do, the “managers” immediately pick up brooms and sponges and have the place tidied up as best they can before coach arrives. They are, however, pubescent at the oldest, and clean as well as I did at that age. So the facility has a unique funk that will almost certainly never die. I do have trouble comparing it to anything, but I am reminded sometimes of the goat barn I worked in when I was eleven.
Yes, milking goats was my first job, which may explain my current mental outlook.
You can’t fault the school’s wrestling program, though, because they are undefeated since forever. Wrestling keeps score on a point system which I am attempting to learn but am finding hard to decipher. It’s not all smashing chairs on one’s opponent’s head or speaking to the crowd from a mic that magically appears from the rafters. It’s more like that kid moved the other kid around in a subtle way so he gets a point and the team score rises through some algorithm like maybe 2y+3x points. Or maybe it’s something else—like I said, wrestling algebra is something I haven’t mastered.
Most matches happen on school days, so they are not that long. I try to pick up the point system and my kids are bored. But then there are weekend matches, which bring teams from miles around to compete all day. My kids team has a guidebook for how to attend a match like this and the first line, and I’m not kidding about this, is “Bring a book." But I don’t--I spend the day scoping out possibly available single moms and working the concessions along with the other parents. It’s all very USA and fun in its way, but seriously it’s ALL DAY LONG.
I have had the kids in numerous sports and the wrestling parents are the easiest to deal with. There are no screaming football dads reliving their fumble-prone youth via their offspring. There are no sharp-tongued baseball moms leaning over the fence to tell you how you are incorrectly coaching third base. Mostly everyone just wants to watch their kid wrestle and go home.
It teaches good lessons about sportsmanship and teamwork and how you should never grab another kid’s nuts.
Oh, it also it teaches angles and technique and now my son can now take me to the floor at will.
I Wish I Hadn't Been Mugged in Dixie--Special Guest Post by Author Sibling Matt Cahill3/12/2015
I got mugged recently. It was in the quiet town of Greenville, SC, which I had previously regarded as a standout community that is cute as a southern button. In fact, there is a subset of its native daughters that is truly blond, beautiful, tall and slim and desperately looking for the opportunity to get a chance to live somewhere else. So, an aside to the male readers–-show up in Greenville with some sort of appearance of being papered up, or even just reliable transport, and you will have your pick. I recommend the Whole Foods store for opportunistic mingling. The pizza is good and if selection is slim there, it's because they're all at the hot yoga place next door.`
There are only two nice towns in South Carolina. Been to most of the place and believe me if you are looking for southern charm in this most redneck of states there are only two places you can find it. Besides Greenville, there's Charleston, which is sort of an East Coast San Diego with fewer sailors and a bonus terrifying history of importing and processing slaves. Nice these days though, no matter where you fall on the melanin spectrum.
So anyway I was on the way back from dinner to my conveniently placed, walking distance hotel when I was soundly knocked on the back of the head. As my face hit the pavement things got a little confusing but I didn’t take long to realize what was up. Decided not to resist as my generally gnarly Philly upbringing would have prompted. The foot on my neck helped greatly in reaching this decision.
There were two of them. Uncertain why they picked me. I wouldn't have though myself a particularly good target. While not a big person I am in good shape, a man, and well, to put it bluntly, not an old woman grasping a promising looking bag.
I have been involved in scientific pursuits most of my life and, while I am not familiar with any scale matrix regarding muggings, I have graded the assault as follows:
Precision and Accuracy--A
Didn’t see it coming and no sloppy assailant footwork.
Method –A
See above.
Results –F
As violent attacks go, it was really quite polite. Not going to make it to the muggers Hall of Fame reel. Post it on YouTube, you might get a couple dozen hits.
Said crooks took my wallet and emptied it. They did leave it on the ground, though, so I still have it.
It was a short lived affair. I got up and walked back, cancelled my cards without financial misfortune. Typed for a while trying to figure out various passwords for the frequent flyer/hotel point cards. I thought about making a police report but went to bed instead. Seemed easier.
Lost about 30 bucks cash. Presume there is a new Confederate flag or case of Natural Light empties in front of a trailer somewhere in the Southern woods. Otherwise, I’ll trust karma to take care of the $30. Hopefully, they lose it at the cockfights.
Dogs And Tampons--A Field Report from Author Sibling Matt Cahill6/25/2015
Once upon a time my sitter asked me to watch her dog for a week while she hit the beach. No problem, I said. Had met the dog and he’s cool with me. So Chief racked here and it was all good. Had to be out of town on business a couple of days, though, so I left Chief behind with the now ex-wife who called in a panic. Chief had discovered and devoured two utilized feminine hygiene devices. What should be done?
I couldn't say. I have little experience in that area. I've noticed dogs eat whatever they want to eat, providing they can get their paws on it, and live (or not) with the consequences. However one must understand that the dog in question is only very slightly larger than 2 feminine hygiene devices put together, so in a flash of conscience I suggested she call the vet across the street and inquire. To make a long and disgusting story short, Chief dealt with one in each direction (luck or talent?) and remains well to this day.
I am only reminded of this as my house now usually contains 3-5 dogs. I’m certain one is mine. The others just seem to collect here –kind of like a modern day Arnolds' without the Fonz. The "dog door," which is actually a screen on the deck my dogs jump through whenever I fix it- is always open. They are a varied lot but it is kind of an unwritten rule in my very rural North Carolina neighborhood that as long as they are mellow, dogs run free. Seriously, the cat is the bad ass. Sometimes when on a boring conference call I will un-mute during a rousing barkfest just for comic relief for my assuredly co-bored coworkers.
It’s all well and good until the fall when the local hunters get to shoot deer legally. They raise a few dogs a season, and by raise I mean chain them up get them fed and ready to run, truck them in a cage in the back of a pickup to the hunting grounds and then cut them loose to scare up Bambis to shoot. Then they drive away without them, at which point they wander toward my place and the dog occupancy rises.
I’d prefer if you didn’t abandon your dogs but it is your right here in this state. I know you can afford to keep them, though, given the size of your trucks and the dollars you spend on styling outdoor threads and ammo. Ever been to a Cabela’s? Sheesh.
My Milk Bone line item is ever growing.
Thoughts and Prayers10/8/2018
A special guest post by author sibling Matt Cahill
It’s popular these days to send thoughts and prayers into the ether when circumstances call for it, which is usually after someone or a group of someones has experienced something horrible. It is a kind sentiment, for sure, but I question the final destination of these T’s and P’s.
I imagine the prayers are aimed at a deity of some kind, or perhaps the universe as a whole. But God and the Universe seem to have inboxes that constantly full and voice mailboxes that are clogged. Perhaps they just use the calendar function to say they are unavailable. You may be able to catch them on Insta just by pure luck. But they swipe left. A lot.
Thoughts are a different matter. Presumably you have them, much as I do. Is the neighbor a douche? Where are my keys? Why does the dog want to lick my face after I catch him eating the cat’s shit again? But I don’t expect you to ponder the same things. Apologies to all of the home philosophers out there who think someone might care about their thoughts. The Philosophy Hall of Fame is a tough one to get in to. Seems to help if you are Greek.
The phrase is often used by public figures to dismiss pretty much any awful thing without actual effort. The current candy-corn colored leader uses it, when he sticks to his script. Which he rarely does. And let’s face it, we mostly want him off of it.
When I asked a friend what phrase we might try to popularize to replace the T’s and P’s, his daughter suggested “Aw, rats!” Which I thought was excellent.
So, as these thoughts disappear into nothingness without being contemplated by the vast majority of deities, universes and living humans, I notice the dog has his nose in the litter box again.
Aw, rats!
My Own Personal Jesus3/18/2019
2 COMMENTS
Special Guest Post by Author Sibling Matt Cahill
Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus
Recently some folks showed up at my house to convert me to Christianity. While I was raised in the full splendor of the nunnery and pedophilia of the One True Church, I kicked that to the curb long ago. But I invited them in to hear their pitch. The nature of the message involved a great deal of valuable Jesus info and it got me to thinking about what His life was like.
First, it must have been super comfortable. Robes and sandals 24/7. Warm weather. The ability to pull loaves and fishes out of your ass is an awesome party trick. There is no real evidence to prove the walking on the water bit but damn, that would be cool.
It’s unlikely Jesus was white, just from a geographical perspective, which is good, because nonwhite people tend to bring the best weed. Which means you need some extra loaves and fishes.
Apparently, his girlfriend was a total ho but he dug her anyway. In my Catholic grade school, they would always pick the hottest girl to play her in The Passion Play.
Not sure what Jesus did for recreation but I’m guessing beach volleyball. You don’t get abs like that without regular exercise. Also, not sure of what the waves are like in the Sea of Galilee, but I’m certain he could drop in and get pitted with the best of them.
He had twelve bros to roll with. A solid crew, except for that Judas mother-fucker who sold Him out to the Man. They all ate on the same side of the table if the painting is accurate. But His posse, like most, scattered when their boy got in trouble with the po-po, saying “Dude, if things weren’t so crazy for me right now, I’d go home, grab a hammer and pry you off that cross, but the kids and all…”
So Jesus was dead for a while but rose. Apparently, bee-lined for his dad’s house, which is in a super nice neighborhood. He makes noises about coming back, but I’m not holding my breath.
Don't Sweat the Svetlanas6/22/2017
1 COMMENT
Special guest post by author sibling Matt Cahill
Spending the week at the beach in beautiful Avon, NC. It’s a great spot, although somewhat remote. And it is, surprisingly, the true strikepoint of Russia’s multifaceted incursion to control the Mango Mussolini’s US ofA.
Sure I know what you’re thinking, between the Attorney general, first nephew “Kush’s” bro meetings in Moscow, and ‘Holmes” Comey getting fired, combined with widespread hacking into the election process, there are so many fronts to tweet on the menace that is Russia that poor 45 can barely get a round in. NOTE TO RUSSIA–outsource your hacking to India like everyone else does. They’re simply better at it.
But in fact the most insidious incursion is here in this sleepy little beach burgh. I have been coming here for 20 plus years and over the past few there has been a disturbing change. Instead of every service employee at each restaurant, kite surfing lesson, bike rental, etc., being a local, year-round, unmistakably American redneck, they are now Russian.
That’s right, the Russians have taken over the food chain, especially at the Food Lion grocery. It is packed with tall, blond, strikingly beautiful Svetlanas (not exaggerating--read two Svetlana name tags yesterday). Since Agent Orange has a penchant for scooping up eastern European beauties, I fear this has gone unnoticed, perhaps even encouraged, by Papaya Pinochet.
The Russians seem incredibly hard working and REALLY improve beach viewing for sunburned tourists from PA, NJ, and OH (full disclosure--I used to be a PA tourist myself, but have lived in NC for a dozen years now so I can mock their mini-vanned fat selves with impunity).
I haven’t seen any propaganda as yet but you know it’s coming. By the time Putin can do 150 pushups without pause, his influence will have spider-webbed throughout the East Coast.
Saw some of Comey’s testimony and he is clearly gunning for the presidential gig next time round. Maybe he can save my vacation spot.
Just please let Svetlana and her friends stay on the beach.
The Farmers' Market Wars
8/25/2016
0 COMMENTS
Special Report By Author Sibling Matt Cahill
Normally I grow my own tomatoes with varying degrees of success. I did not get any planted this year so have to look for them elsewhere. Since they are in season the farmer’s market seems like a target rich environment. There are two in the nearest little town to me. It’s a rare liberal bastion in NC.
So I brought this up to group of lesbian friends-for a reason I don’t know I have a lot of lesbian friends, except for the obvious sexual attraction to the same gender we share. Probably more likely we go the the same bar like everyone else does cause it’s the only cool bar in town. The lesbians go to ogle Christina the barkeep, who is a crazy beautiful blond with the most perfectly aftermarket boobs ever implanted. She’s also a total sweetheart and yes I go to ogle her as well. She spent good money on them and wants folks to notice.
So the lesbians react to my farmer’s market question in hushed tones and diverted eyes. There is a war on with the farmers and the lesbians are clued in. Pretty sure most of the lesbians are not actual farmers but most have enough land to grow some things.
The town has built a really nice spot for the farmers to display their stuff on Saturdays, and there is a hipster playing guitar poorly and you can pay more than you would at a Whole Foods for a tomato because it’s organic. There are also organic bales of hay. Far as I know hay is what grows in your field when you don’t plant anything else. My lawn is organic.
So the 2nd Farmers Market was relegated to the parking lot of the Home Depot for a while, stuck between the illegal day workers and fix-it dads trying to figure out the best way to cram a dozen two-by-fours into a Prius. They had clearly lost the farmers market battle and had to be embarrassed by it but they circled the wagons and decided to take legal action to get back to the cute spot by the river. They prevailed and now all the women with long grey hair in a ponytail (also a common look for the men vendors) can push oddball veggies at you under a common roof. But clearly the tension is high. A single aggressively handled rutabaga could re-ignite the conflict, in the opinion of this observer.
The kale market is particularly competitive. I imagine because kale is a weed and grows everywhere and tastes like plaster no matter how one prepares it. The cooking shows tell me all about how it can be done but guessing even in the hands of a master chef, really good camera work and lighting, it still tastes like the crap that it is.
So anyway I get my tomatoes and pull the kiddos out of the river and hope I don't have to use my tomatoes to defend myself on the way home before we can make some chili with them. It’s a fun morning.
Special Guest Blog! GOD AND BASEBALL
4/19/2012
1 COMMENT
Little League began recently for my eight year old. It’s so adorable you can’t believe it. The kids are all 7 or 8 so while we don’t technically keep score, everyone knows what it is, and how many games we win and lose. So far we are 0-2. As an assistant coach I find myself thinking about the lineup, scoping out the competition and trying to find a way to hide the kids on my team who stink up the outfield every inning. The adults, as I’m sure is the case everywhere, care much more about winning and losing than the kids do. Last game some random parent came up to me to tell me our side had gotten a free out due to the fact that one of our kids wasn’t called out sliding in to first –which is apparently against the rules. It took all of my self control not to call him out for arrant douchebaggery. Our team this year is a little Bad News Bearish as far as paying attention and athletic skills go. That was not the case last season, and I give all the credit to last year's coaching staff, except, obviously, me. Actually, I give all the credit to Coach Cecil and possibly, the Almighty.
Coach Cecil is about 7 feet tall and I think has that condition that Lincoln supposedly had. He’s a scary dude. He’s also a preacher for one of the local megachurches. Cecil tended to get more out of the kids by speaking very little and doing so in very short commands:
“Stop the ball!”
“Hit it hard!”
“Sit down!”
etc…
When on Coach Cecil’s Team we went 11-1, only losing in the championship game (despite my son’s season being shortened by an appendectomy, leaving us shorthanded in the playoffs), raised the most money for the league fundraiser, and the most food for the league food drive.
That team didn’t have all that much more talent than this year’s team, which got me to thinking that, given Cecil’s occupation, was God on that team’s side?
Certainly, folks have been invoking divine intervention for their teams since it was lions vs.Christians, but much like the usual author of this blog, I tend toward agnosticism, so I never gave it much credence. Plus I’m sure there are thousands of people who pray for the Cubs every season, so the evidence of history is on the side of rationalism. Except…
I first saw Cecil in a hardware store looking over the giant rack of nuts, bolts, screws. He clearly needed something more out of the ordinary than a 3/8” or 9/16” and was not happy. We didn’t know each other then, so I was eavesdropping on his end of his phone conversation, which went something like: “No, no” followed by a long plea on other end, then “No, no” followed by an even longer attempt at persuasion. Finally, Cecil said, “NO! That would be disobedient to God,” and angrily hung up the phone.
It wasn’t a very polite way to treat a member of the congregation, no matter how many times they might have annoyed you previously by calling while you were at peace in the silent, undemanding company of nuts and bolts, screws and washers, but I sometimes wonder that if Cecil had exercised a little more patience with his flock that day, last year's team could have gone undefeated.
The Problem With My Budget--Special Guest Blog
2/13/2014
2 COMMENTS
By author sibling Matt Cahill
I travel a bunch for my job and have to rent cars on a regular basis. I’m no globetrotter but do my share of domestic jumps and generally rent cars with Budget. I’m a gold or platinum or plutonium or uranium member – this matters very little or a great deal depending where one is. While most rent-a-car companies endeavor to make the customer experience uniform across each outlet, Budget, refreshingly, does not. Let’s trot out some examples:
Memphis, TN – This by far my favorite Budget counter. To call the staff merely relaxed is several comfy sofas short of reality. They are routinely women who are black, sizeable, and owners of bosoms that cover the majority of the available counter space when they lean over it. Your precious metal status as a customer is unimportant, as these girls lure every customer in with phrases such as “What you want to drive today baby? – I got a Mustang," “Insurance is a rip off” and “Where you drivin hon? You goin' to be back Wednesday? Don’t worry I’ll just put it down for Tuesday and we’ll see.” Despite being the home of The King and such, Memphis is by this traveler's reckoning a "dump" or a “shithole." The Memphis experience starts with the constant stream of FedEx planes overhead making sure all the Amazon Prime people get their electronics on time, and it gets worse from there. I don’t want to go anywhere in that town except maybe back to the Budget girls' places for bbq. Their counter is a refreshing wet nap before you plunge into the grunge of a city that combines the boredom of the Midwest with the general backwardness of the South.
San Juan, PR – Also a fun spot assuming there is a car for you and you can navigate back to the lot which turns out to be much more difficult than leaving it. As an extremely white guy Puerto Rican Budget workers generally hit me up with English right away, which I appreciate. Very friendly spot and buenos noches all around. But, seriously, when they tell you to inspect the car for damages and fill out the little sheet DO IT! before you exit.
Philadelphia, PA – Like the usual blogger here, I hail from Philly originally and both of us have had many occasions to use PHL. There are probably worse places in Syria and South Sudan but I don’t have to go to those so I will single the Burg of Brotherly Love out as the most unfriendly Budget counter in my experience. This is not unique to Budget; all PHL airport denizens are surly in the extreme, from info desk workers to bag handlers to bar staff. After a brief walk through the Marriott (or if you actually deign to get on the shuttle bus to the Budget counter) the staff will have taken miserableness to the Olympic level to celebrate your arrival. From your pick up to your drop off, barely suppressed anger oozes out of them, complementing the hellishly cold and dank surroundings nicely. I do my best to try and be sympathetic, as the Philly airport is nestled between a very large sewage treatment plant, the Delaware River, where the pollutants of centuries past meander lazily towards the Atlantic and an abandoned Navy shipyard. If you've never been there please brace yourself for the initial shock of the smell that hits you upon arrival –unique among the nation's metro airports. I imagine being surrounded by it all day would make me testy as well.
AUTHOR'S NOTE—While I don't have the rental car resume of my brother, I did recently suffer through a similar travel-work experience in Dallas, which in my opinion is just another boring Midwestern town but with a cowboy hat on. While my rental car wasn't from Budget, it didn't matter; at the Dallas airport all the rental car companies share the same structure, kind of like a United Nations General Assembly of Rental Wheels, filled with cars painted in primary colors that you would never want to actually own. The main defect with this is that the structure is reached by a very long road along which the signs for rental car drop-off are spaced so widely that you are repeatedly gripped with an acute fear that you have missed the turn-off for it, and are doomed to extend your stay in Dallas unintentionally.
As far as the source of Philly surliness, I believe it is caused by its citizens being certain they live in the worst major city on the East Coast. This is reinforced by the experience of traveling there by road; while you can keep track of the miles to New York as far south as South Carolina, Philadelphia is not even mentioned on the signage of I-95 until you get to northern Maryland. Once you find the place, a little north of Wilmington, Delaware, which is sort of a mini-Philly (city slogan—"Why Go Further? We Have the Same Sandwiches and the Same Crime Rate) you'll find yourself in a town that is way more tolerant of bystander shootings than of losing sports teams and where any suggestions for improvement are usually greeted by a hearty invitation to go enjoy intercourse with yourself.
See you there soon.
1/28/2016
One of my sons joined the wrestling team this year. Well, sort of. In your first year on the team you aren’t allowed to compete but can be a “manager”. Which means you show up early and smack around with the other managers until the “real” wrestlers show up. I’ll grant you when they do, the “managers” immediately pick up brooms and sponges and have the place tidied up as best they can before coach arrives. They are, however, pubescent at the oldest, and clean as well as I did at that age. So the facility has a unique funk that will almost certainly never die. I do have trouble comparing it to anything, but I am reminded sometimes of the goat barn I worked in when I was eleven.
Yes, milking goats was my first job, which may explain my current mental outlook.
You can’t fault the school’s wrestling program, though, because they are undefeated since forever. Wrestling keeps score on a point system which I am attempting to learn but am finding hard to decipher. It’s not all smashing chairs on one’s opponent’s head or speaking to the crowd from a mic that magically appears from the rafters. It’s more like that kid moved the other kid around in a subtle way so he gets a point and the team score rises through some algorithm like maybe 2y+3x points. Or maybe it’s something else—like I said, wrestling algebra is something I haven’t mastered.
Most matches happen on school days, so they are not that long. I try to pick up the point system and my kids are bored. But then there are weekend matches, which bring teams from miles around to compete all day. My kids team has a guidebook for how to attend a match like this and the first line, and I’m not kidding about this, is “Bring a book." But I don’t--I spend the day scoping out possibly available single moms and working the concessions along with the other parents. It’s all very USA and fun in its way, but seriously it’s ALL DAY LONG.
I have had the kids in numerous sports and the wrestling parents are the easiest to deal with. There are no screaming football dads reliving their fumble-prone youth via their offspring. There are no sharp-tongued baseball moms leaning over the fence to tell you how you are incorrectly coaching third base. Mostly everyone just wants to watch their kid wrestle and go home.
It teaches good lessons about sportsmanship and teamwork and how you should never grab another kid’s nuts.
Oh, it also it teaches angles and technique and now my son can now take me to the floor at will.
I Wish I Hadn't Been Mugged in Dixie--Special Guest Post by Author Sibling Matt Cahill3/12/2015
I got mugged recently. It was in the quiet town of Greenville, SC, which I had previously regarded as a standout community that is cute as a southern button. In fact, there is a subset of its native daughters that is truly blond, beautiful, tall and slim and desperately looking for the opportunity to get a chance to live somewhere else. So, an aside to the male readers–-show up in Greenville with some sort of appearance of being papered up, or even just reliable transport, and you will have your pick. I recommend the Whole Foods store for opportunistic mingling. The pizza is good and if selection is slim there, it's because they're all at the hot yoga place next door.`
There are only two nice towns in South Carolina. Been to most of the place and believe me if you are looking for southern charm in this most redneck of states there are only two places you can find it. Besides Greenville, there's Charleston, which is sort of an East Coast San Diego with fewer sailors and a bonus terrifying history of importing and processing slaves. Nice these days though, no matter where you fall on the melanin spectrum.
So anyway I was on the way back from dinner to my conveniently placed, walking distance hotel when I was soundly knocked on the back of the head. As my face hit the pavement things got a little confusing but I didn’t take long to realize what was up. Decided not to resist as my generally gnarly Philly upbringing would have prompted. The foot on my neck helped greatly in reaching this decision.
There were two of them. Uncertain why they picked me. I wouldn't have though myself a particularly good target. While not a big person I am in good shape, a man, and well, to put it bluntly, not an old woman grasping a promising looking bag.
I have been involved in scientific pursuits most of my life and, while I am not familiar with any scale matrix regarding muggings, I have graded the assault as follows:
Precision and Accuracy--A
Didn’t see it coming and no sloppy assailant footwork.
Method –A
See above.
Results –F
As violent attacks go, it was really quite polite. Not going to make it to the muggers Hall of Fame reel. Post it on YouTube, you might get a couple dozen hits.
Said crooks took my wallet and emptied it. They did leave it on the ground, though, so I still have it.
It was a short lived affair. I got up and walked back, cancelled my cards without financial misfortune. Typed for a while trying to figure out various passwords for the frequent flyer/hotel point cards. I thought about making a police report but went to bed instead. Seemed easier.
Lost about 30 bucks cash. Presume there is a new Confederate flag or case of Natural Light empties in front of a trailer somewhere in the Southern woods. Otherwise, I’ll trust karma to take care of the $30. Hopefully, they lose it at the cockfights.
Dogs And Tampons--A Field Report from Author Sibling Matt Cahill6/25/2015
Once upon a time my sitter asked me to watch her dog for a week while she hit the beach. No problem, I said. Had met the dog and he’s cool with me. So Chief racked here and it was all good. Had to be out of town on business a couple of days, though, so I left Chief behind with the now ex-wife who called in a panic. Chief had discovered and devoured two utilized feminine hygiene devices. What should be done?
I couldn't say. I have little experience in that area. I've noticed dogs eat whatever they want to eat, providing they can get their paws on it, and live (or not) with the consequences. However one must understand that the dog in question is only very slightly larger than 2 feminine hygiene devices put together, so in a flash of conscience I suggested she call the vet across the street and inquire. To make a long and disgusting story short, Chief dealt with one in each direction (luck or talent?) and remains well to this day.
I am only reminded of this as my house now usually contains 3-5 dogs. I’m certain one is mine. The others just seem to collect here –kind of like a modern day Arnolds' without the Fonz. The "dog door," which is actually a screen on the deck my dogs jump through whenever I fix it- is always open. They are a varied lot but it is kind of an unwritten rule in my very rural North Carolina neighborhood that as long as they are mellow, dogs run free. Seriously, the cat is the bad ass. Sometimes when on a boring conference call I will un-mute during a rousing barkfest just for comic relief for my assuredly co-bored coworkers.
It’s all well and good until the fall when the local hunters get to shoot deer legally. They raise a few dogs a season, and by raise I mean chain them up get them fed and ready to run, truck them in a cage in the back of a pickup to the hunting grounds and then cut them loose to scare up Bambis to shoot. Then they drive away without them, at which point they wander toward my place and the dog occupancy rises.
I’d prefer if you didn’t abandon your dogs but it is your right here in this state. I know you can afford to keep them, though, given the size of your trucks and the dollars you spend on styling outdoor threads and ammo. Ever been to a Cabela’s? Sheesh.
My Milk Bone line item is ever growing.
Thoughts and Prayers10/8/2018
A special guest post by author sibling Matt Cahill
It’s popular these days to send thoughts and prayers into the ether when circumstances call for it, which is usually after someone or a group of someones has experienced something horrible. It is a kind sentiment, for sure, but I question the final destination of these T’s and P’s.
I imagine the prayers are aimed at a deity of some kind, or perhaps the universe as a whole. But God and the Universe seem to have inboxes that constantly full and voice mailboxes that are clogged. Perhaps they just use the calendar function to say they are unavailable. You may be able to catch them on Insta just by pure luck. But they swipe left. A lot.
Thoughts are a different matter. Presumably you have them, much as I do. Is the neighbor a douche? Where are my keys? Why does the dog want to lick my face after I catch him eating the cat’s shit again? But I don’t expect you to ponder the same things. Apologies to all of the home philosophers out there who think someone might care about their thoughts. The Philosophy Hall of Fame is a tough one to get in to. Seems to help if you are Greek.
The phrase is often used by public figures to dismiss pretty much any awful thing without actual effort. The current candy-corn colored leader uses it, when he sticks to his script. Which he rarely does. And let’s face it, we mostly want him off of it.
When I asked a friend what phrase we might try to popularize to replace the T’s and P’s, his daughter suggested “Aw, rats!” Which I thought was excellent.
So, as these thoughts disappear into nothingness without being contemplated by the vast majority of deities, universes and living humans, I notice the dog has his nose in the litter box again.
Aw, rats!
My Own Personal Jesus3/18/2019
2 COMMENTS
Special Guest Post by Author Sibling Matt Cahill
Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus
Recently some folks showed up at my house to convert me to Christianity. While I was raised in the full splendor of the nunnery and pedophilia of the One True Church, I kicked that to the curb long ago. But I invited them in to hear their pitch. The nature of the message involved a great deal of valuable Jesus info and it got me to thinking about what His life was like.
First, it must have been super comfortable. Robes and sandals 24/7. Warm weather. The ability to pull loaves and fishes out of your ass is an awesome party trick. There is no real evidence to prove the walking on the water bit but damn, that would be cool.
It’s unlikely Jesus was white, just from a geographical perspective, which is good, because nonwhite people tend to bring the best weed. Which means you need some extra loaves and fishes.
Apparently, his girlfriend was a total ho but he dug her anyway. In my Catholic grade school, they would always pick the hottest girl to play her in The Passion Play.
Not sure what Jesus did for recreation but I’m guessing beach volleyball. You don’t get abs like that without regular exercise. Also, not sure of what the waves are like in the Sea of Galilee, but I’m certain he could drop in and get pitted with the best of them.
He had twelve bros to roll with. A solid crew, except for that Judas mother-fucker who sold Him out to the Man. They all ate on the same side of the table if the painting is accurate. But His posse, like most, scattered when their boy got in trouble with the po-po, saying “Dude, if things weren’t so crazy for me right now, I’d go home, grab a hammer and pry you off that cross, but the kids and all…”
So Jesus was dead for a while but rose. Apparently, bee-lined for his dad’s house, which is in a super nice neighborhood. He makes noises about coming back, but I’m not holding my breath.
Don't Sweat the Svetlanas6/22/2017
1 COMMENT
Special guest post by author sibling Matt Cahill
Spending the week at the beach in beautiful Avon, NC. It’s a great spot, although somewhat remote. And it is, surprisingly, the true strikepoint of Russia’s multifaceted incursion to control the Mango Mussolini’s US ofA.
Sure I know what you’re thinking, between the Attorney general, first nephew “Kush’s” bro meetings in Moscow, and ‘Holmes” Comey getting fired, combined with widespread hacking into the election process, there are so many fronts to tweet on the menace that is Russia that poor 45 can barely get a round in. NOTE TO RUSSIA–outsource your hacking to India like everyone else does. They’re simply better at it.
But in fact the most insidious incursion is here in this sleepy little beach burgh. I have been coming here for 20 plus years and over the past few there has been a disturbing change. Instead of every service employee at each restaurant, kite surfing lesson, bike rental, etc., being a local, year-round, unmistakably American redneck, they are now Russian.
That’s right, the Russians have taken over the food chain, especially at the Food Lion grocery. It is packed with tall, blond, strikingly beautiful Svetlanas (not exaggerating--read two Svetlana name tags yesterday). Since Agent Orange has a penchant for scooping up eastern European beauties, I fear this has gone unnoticed, perhaps even encouraged, by Papaya Pinochet.
The Russians seem incredibly hard working and REALLY improve beach viewing for sunburned tourists from PA, NJ, and OH (full disclosure--I used to be a PA tourist myself, but have lived in NC for a dozen years now so I can mock their mini-vanned fat selves with impunity).
I haven’t seen any propaganda as yet but you know it’s coming. By the time Putin can do 150 pushups without pause, his influence will have spider-webbed throughout the East Coast.
Saw some of Comey’s testimony and he is clearly gunning for the presidential gig next time round. Maybe he can save my vacation spot.
Just please let Svetlana and her friends stay on the beach.
The Farmers' Market Wars
8/25/2016
0 COMMENTS
Special Report By Author Sibling Matt Cahill
Normally I grow my own tomatoes with varying degrees of success. I did not get any planted this year so have to look for them elsewhere. Since they are in season the farmer’s market seems like a target rich environment. There are two in the nearest little town to me. It’s a rare liberal bastion in NC.
So I brought this up to group of lesbian friends-for a reason I don’t know I have a lot of lesbian friends, except for the obvious sexual attraction to the same gender we share. Probably more likely we go the the same bar like everyone else does cause it’s the only cool bar in town. The lesbians go to ogle Christina the barkeep, who is a crazy beautiful blond with the most perfectly aftermarket boobs ever implanted. She’s also a total sweetheart and yes I go to ogle her as well. She spent good money on them and wants folks to notice.
So the lesbians react to my farmer’s market question in hushed tones and diverted eyes. There is a war on with the farmers and the lesbians are clued in. Pretty sure most of the lesbians are not actual farmers but most have enough land to grow some things.
The town has built a really nice spot for the farmers to display their stuff on Saturdays, and there is a hipster playing guitar poorly and you can pay more than you would at a Whole Foods for a tomato because it’s organic. There are also organic bales of hay. Far as I know hay is what grows in your field when you don’t plant anything else. My lawn is organic.
So the 2nd Farmers Market was relegated to the parking lot of the Home Depot for a while, stuck between the illegal day workers and fix-it dads trying to figure out the best way to cram a dozen two-by-fours into a Prius. They had clearly lost the farmers market battle and had to be embarrassed by it but they circled the wagons and decided to take legal action to get back to the cute spot by the river. They prevailed and now all the women with long grey hair in a ponytail (also a common look for the men vendors) can push oddball veggies at you under a common roof. But clearly the tension is high. A single aggressively handled rutabaga could re-ignite the conflict, in the opinion of this observer.
The kale market is particularly competitive. I imagine because kale is a weed and grows everywhere and tastes like plaster no matter how one prepares it. The cooking shows tell me all about how it can be done but guessing even in the hands of a master chef, really good camera work and lighting, it still tastes like the crap that it is.
So anyway I get my tomatoes and pull the kiddos out of the river and hope I don't have to use my tomatoes to defend myself on the way home before we can make some chili with them. It’s a fun morning.
Special Guest Blog! GOD AND BASEBALL
4/19/2012
1 COMMENT
Little League began recently for my eight year old. It’s so adorable you can’t believe it. The kids are all 7 or 8 so while we don’t technically keep score, everyone knows what it is, and how many games we win and lose. So far we are 0-2. As an assistant coach I find myself thinking about the lineup, scoping out the competition and trying to find a way to hide the kids on my team who stink up the outfield every inning. The adults, as I’m sure is the case everywhere, care much more about winning and losing than the kids do. Last game some random parent came up to me to tell me our side had gotten a free out due to the fact that one of our kids wasn’t called out sliding in to first –which is apparently against the rules. It took all of my self control not to call him out for arrant douchebaggery. Our team this year is a little Bad News Bearish as far as paying attention and athletic skills go. That was not the case last season, and I give all the credit to last year's coaching staff, except, obviously, me. Actually, I give all the credit to Coach Cecil and possibly, the Almighty.
Coach Cecil is about 7 feet tall and I think has that condition that Lincoln supposedly had. He’s a scary dude. He’s also a preacher for one of the local megachurches. Cecil tended to get more out of the kids by speaking very little and doing so in very short commands:
“Stop the ball!”
“Hit it hard!”
“Sit down!”
etc…
When on Coach Cecil’s Team we went 11-1, only losing in the championship game (despite my son’s season being shortened by an appendectomy, leaving us shorthanded in the playoffs), raised the most money for the league fundraiser, and the most food for the league food drive.
That team didn’t have all that much more talent than this year’s team, which got me to thinking that, given Cecil’s occupation, was God on that team’s side?
Certainly, folks have been invoking divine intervention for their teams since it was lions vs.Christians, but much like the usual author of this blog, I tend toward agnosticism, so I never gave it much credence. Plus I’m sure there are thousands of people who pray for the Cubs every season, so the evidence of history is on the side of rationalism. Except…
I first saw Cecil in a hardware store looking over the giant rack of nuts, bolts, screws. He clearly needed something more out of the ordinary than a 3/8” or 9/16” and was not happy. We didn’t know each other then, so I was eavesdropping on his end of his phone conversation, which went something like: “No, no” followed by a long plea on other end, then “No, no” followed by an even longer attempt at persuasion. Finally, Cecil said, “NO! That would be disobedient to God,” and angrily hung up the phone.
It wasn’t a very polite way to treat a member of the congregation, no matter how many times they might have annoyed you previously by calling while you were at peace in the silent, undemanding company of nuts and bolts, screws and washers, but I sometimes wonder that if Cecil had exercised a little more patience with his flock that day, last year's team could have gone undefeated.
The Problem With My Budget--Special Guest Blog
2/13/2014
2 COMMENTS
By author sibling Matt Cahill
I travel a bunch for my job and have to rent cars on a regular basis. I’m no globetrotter but do my share of domestic jumps and generally rent cars with Budget. I’m a gold or platinum or plutonium or uranium member – this matters very little or a great deal depending where one is. While most rent-a-car companies endeavor to make the customer experience uniform across each outlet, Budget, refreshingly, does not. Let’s trot out some examples:
Memphis, TN – This by far my favorite Budget counter. To call the staff merely relaxed is several comfy sofas short of reality. They are routinely women who are black, sizeable, and owners of bosoms that cover the majority of the available counter space when they lean over it. Your precious metal status as a customer is unimportant, as these girls lure every customer in with phrases such as “What you want to drive today baby? – I got a Mustang," “Insurance is a rip off” and “Where you drivin hon? You goin' to be back Wednesday? Don’t worry I’ll just put it down for Tuesday and we’ll see.” Despite being the home of The King and such, Memphis is by this traveler's reckoning a "dump" or a “shithole." The Memphis experience starts with the constant stream of FedEx planes overhead making sure all the Amazon Prime people get their electronics on time, and it gets worse from there. I don’t want to go anywhere in that town except maybe back to the Budget girls' places for bbq. Their counter is a refreshing wet nap before you plunge into the grunge of a city that combines the boredom of the Midwest with the general backwardness of the South.
San Juan, PR – Also a fun spot assuming there is a car for you and you can navigate back to the lot which turns out to be much more difficult than leaving it. As an extremely white guy Puerto Rican Budget workers generally hit me up with English right away, which I appreciate. Very friendly spot and buenos noches all around. But, seriously, when they tell you to inspect the car for damages and fill out the little sheet DO IT! before you exit.
Philadelphia, PA – Like the usual blogger here, I hail from Philly originally and both of us have had many occasions to use PHL. There are probably worse places in Syria and South Sudan but I don’t have to go to those so I will single the Burg of Brotherly Love out as the most unfriendly Budget counter in my experience. This is not unique to Budget; all PHL airport denizens are surly in the extreme, from info desk workers to bag handlers to bar staff. After a brief walk through the Marriott (or if you actually deign to get on the shuttle bus to the Budget counter) the staff will have taken miserableness to the Olympic level to celebrate your arrival. From your pick up to your drop off, barely suppressed anger oozes out of them, complementing the hellishly cold and dank surroundings nicely. I do my best to try and be sympathetic, as the Philly airport is nestled between a very large sewage treatment plant, the Delaware River, where the pollutants of centuries past meander lazily towards the Atlantic and an abandoned Navy shipyard. If you've never been there please brace yourself for the initial shock of the smell that hits you upon arrival –unique among the nation's metro airports. I imagine being surrounded by it all day would make me testy as well.
AUTHOR'S NOTE—While I don't have the rental car resume of my brother, I did recently suffer through a similar travel-work experience in Dallas, which in my opinion is just another boring Midwestern town but with a cowboy hat on. While my rental car wasn't from Budget, it didn't matter; at the Dallas airport all the rental car companies share the same structure, kind of like a United Nations General Assembly of Rental Wheels, filled with cars painted in primary colors that you would never want to actually own. The main defect with this is that the structure is reached by a very long road along which the signs for rental car drop-off are spaced so widely that you are repeatedly gripped with an acute fear that you have missed the turn-off for it, and are doomed to extend your stay in Dallas unintentionally.
As far as the source of Philly surliness, I believe it is caused by its citizens being certain they live in the worst major city on the East Coast. This is reinforced by the experience of traveling there by road; while you can keep track of the miles to New York as far south as South Carolina, Philadelphia is not even mentioned on the signage of I-95 until you get to northern Maryland. Once you find the place, a little north of Wilmington, Delaware, which is sort of a mini-Philly (city slogan—"Why Go Further? We Have the Same Sandwiches and the Same Crime Rate) you'll find yourself in a town that is way more tolerant of bystander shootings than of losing sports teams and where any suggestions for improvement are usually greeted by a hearty invitation to go enjoy intercourse with yourself.
See you there soon.