Tomorrow morning we are going to a parade. Grandma is in town. Aunts, nieces, babies, all coming to town just to watch a feakin parade.

I wish everyone sitting in their folding-chair-in-a bag, while waiting for the police car to screech it’s siren signifying the parade’s beggining would take a moment to realize how completely boring parades are.

BTW, why do these chairs necessitate a bag? I swear I spend more time pulling the chair out of the bag and putting it back in than I do actually sitting in it. Will someone please invent the bagless chair? Not hard. Just forget the bag. Done. Some clever bloak will eventually come up with a clip and a strap to make themselves feel like they’ve actaully revolutionized the chair sitting industry. But seriously. Chair bags are dumb. There you have it. The idea happened here first.

I get parades. I do. They’re for kids. The parents come along only to prevent them for being run over by a Shiner in an organge go cart. But I’ve had this discussion with my children. Dad: “Who wants to go to the parade?!” A jillion decible level screem of “ME!!!” Dad: “Why? They are stupid. You know clowns aren’t real don’t you?” (Would you believe none of my children believe in Santa Caus?)

Parades are not about the Miss Teen Pond Scum Festival sitting in the back of some rich bankers convertable. It’s not about the pooping horses, the batton dropping pack of little girls, the fat sweaty incumbant city council member shoving his flyer of he and his family and their dog, with the words, INTEGRITY, DEPENDABLE and FOUND INNOCENT ON ALL CHARGES written in comic sans, in your hand. No.

It’s about the candy. So all you paraders stop with the “I’m all famous, so be lucky if I wave at you”. attitude, mmkay? This paradee ain’t buyin’ it.

Stop referring to your horse trailer with bails of hay on it with a creepy looking dude in yellow tinted glasses holding an inflatable dear rifle a float.

And what exactly is a float? Does it represent something? Is it supposed to resemble something? I don’t get floats. At all. Just dress up and walk. Forget this float crap.

But I’ll take the candy and lots of it. I just wish they threw out cans of Mountain Dew because I got this new folding chair with a sweet cup holder.

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Before I go off on germophobic people (would this make me a germophobaphob?) I need mention I understand we all have our issues. Take me. I hear “voices”. Yes, my mind tells me crazy things. At times, I have to argue with those “voices” and tell them they are wrong and that a semi truck won’t flip off the higway overpass, fly through the air roughly a half a block and crush me while I walk to my car at lunchtime (11:30 BTW), won’t really happen. This is not normal. But enough about me.

I can understand not wanting to get sick. I can even understand going out of ones way to avoid catching something trecherously hazzardous and life threatening like say a cold. But. Come. On.

Today in the mens room at work, while I stood nearby motionless doing my bid-ness, I watched a fellow (to protect the innocent it could have been a woman) nearby wash his hands with soap and then let the water run while he meticulously dried his mits. Then taking the single dripping wet paper towel shut off the faucet.

Let’s break this down, shall we?

So the only thing standing between a faucet handle covered in germs and that precious little index finger of his was a wet paper towel? A wet paper towel is now the equivalent to a germ free suit?

Now let me define the illogical actions in this story here by illustrating a proportional and completely accuarate comparison.

Say we go into a top secret death germ laboratory and get out a big o’ jar of bubonic plague germs and smear them all over a table 4 inches thick with a cement trowel. Then sprinkle some colorful Anthrax over it for good measure. I then take a steril yet wet paper towel and lay it carfully over said germ icing and simply ask you to touch the towel for one half second.

Would you?

No, I dare say, you would not.

See? See how silly that is? It actually kinda bothered me. I thought to myself. “Ha, I hope he (or she) gets sick. Not really, really sick or anything. I just hope he pukes everytime he touchs a faucet handle! Yeah!”

Then I thought, “I’ll show him I’ll just turn my body 90 degrees and pee all over his leg!”

Those are the voices I have to argue with.

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Being a modern husband, I know the meaning of the word sacrifice. I know how to say it. I know how to spell it and I’ve even done it on occasion.

But today I experienced it first hand from the fairer sex. A modern woman, Mother, wife told me today she made the ultimate sacrifice for her husband – she will watch an action flick with her husband.

*gasp*

Now I know that most of what Hollywood puts out these days is total crap and they haven’t made a good action movie that didn’t involve an alien is a couple decades. So I have to say this modern woman deserves some credit. I mean, what manin his right mind would intentionally pay $40 or whatever the going rate for a movie ticket now and subject themself to “Cowbows and Aliens” or the like?

Heck, let’s admit it, Blockbuster isn’t going out of business because of Netflix. No, they are boarding up their windows because all movies suck!

So how’s about you movie studios go make an even greater sacrifice than our heroine modern woman and stop wringing your hands over The Pirate Bay and other torrent sites, “stealing” your precious intellectual property, stop making sequels, stop doing B movies remakes (Dirty Dancing, Really Hollywood? Really? And do I even mention Planet of the Apes and Conan?) and stop taking good actors out of their element (Seth Rogen a superhero?) You aren’t even trying. What next Zach Galifianakis in a remake of Rocky? And I don’t even know what to say about ”Bonnie and Clyde Vs. Dracula”! Yeah people. Real movie.

I just want to punch Hollywood in the face. But I shouldn’t give them any ideas. They’d prolly take that statement and make it into a prequel for “Bearded Rocky.”

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Today about 11:20 am I was heading out for lunch. Yes, 11:30 is lunchtime. As I was crossing the parking lot to my car I looked down and noticed two neatly folded 50 dollar bills on the ground.

One. Hundred. Dollars.

I said outloud, “are you serious right now?”

I looked around. No one was snickering. So I picked them up and put them in my pocket.

My first thought was strippers and cocaine. My second thought was of the face of that freaky one-eyed cat on that Sarah Mclachlan animal cruelty commercial and said outloud,  “I will be an angel for a helpless animal.” But instead I decided to find the very sad right now owner of those two Hiram Ulysses Grants, AKA Ulysses S. Grant (dang that West Point).

I headed back to the office composing the “If anyone lost some money, let me know” email in my head. And (I freakin love to start sentences with “and” get over it) as I was about to head upstairs back to my office, (yeah I work on top floor, it’s a status thing) I decided to ask my friend if he had lost any money, like totes recently. For the purposes of protecting the unfortunate, let’s refer to him as, “Jay.”

I said, “Hey ‘Jay’, did you loose any money like very, very recently?” “Jay”, with that, “I just lost a hundred bucks” look on his face quickly reached into his front pocket where his metrosexual money clip is kept and without even looking at his metrosexual money clip says, “two fifties?”

I made my net worth decrease by $100 and tossed those L notes on his desk and said, “don’t I even get a reward?” And “Jay” responded with, “dude you are so awesome, dude, I will buy you lunch tomorrow, dude.”

Just goes to show not all adages are true… Or are they?

Oh, I almost forgot. Don’t know what TANSTAAFL stands for? Google it.

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The animal kingdom has a pretty creative way of showing it too knows how to get their drink on. It reminds me of those prision stories where inmates can get pretty darned clever in inventing new ways to get high. Like when they mix bar soap shavings with mouse droppings and then smoke it all up inside a ball point pen (or something like that).

Here’s not your typical drunken cautionary tale (or tail): Wasted Elk Molests Mother Nature’s Forrestry (This is a link. Click it.)

It’s about time animals express their right to party. “Hey Rocky! Watch me do this beer funnel.”

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