Children and Guns and Dr. Seuss

This week I received two pictures of my brother's children. The first was a beautiful nature shot of my niece and nephew, both under the age of ten, bundled in their winter coats, posed proudly next to two deer carcasses and the guns that killed them.

The second was all three of his kids. The oldest boy in a Cat in the Hat costume and his two little sisters dressed as Thing 1 and Thing 2. How adorable they were, and innocent looking. Then it occurred to me. If a child can look so harmless in a striped stovepipe hat and large bow tie, and also be capable of murdering a deer, then what else are they capable of?

Be careful this Halloween season, you don't know what these little creatures can do.

At Least the Sluts Didn't Leave Town!

Living in a college town means a few things: always being able to buy an Alma mater sweatshirt at any gas station, having an endless supply of foam "we're #1" fingers and looking forward the mass exodus of flip-flopped, pop-collared, cocked-hatted frat boys at the end of every May. Once commencement commences, I sigh in relief knowing that for the next two months, I won't have to listen to any more "Abercrombie and Fitch on Parade" conversations about how many beer bongs and keg stands that dude did last night as I wait in the check out line at the super market behind a pack of young men pushing a cart full of Doritos, red solo cups and cases of Miller High Life. I am equally thrilled that I don't have to watch eighteen year old girls at target pick our which furry throw rug to buy for their dorm room that will most likely get them a date with whichever aforementioned upperclassman-purchasing-beer they have their eye on.

But last night, I waltzed into a bar frequented by the college crowd and was shocked to see it almost empty. I don't mean a noticeable decrease in attendance, I mean it was damn near ghostly. I felt bad for the band. Then were good too. I didn't know who they were or anything, didn't really care, I mean, I went there to get a little tore up and then verbally abuse strangers. It was sad though, a couple or two would periodically get up and dance to their Texas-themed rhythms, the small crowd would clap at the end of songs, but that was it. I was saddened to witness this lack of drunken participation. But just before last call, I was relieved to see a flock of mildly overweight young ladies in excessively thin summer dresses and spike-heeled shoes march in. "Thank goodness" I thought, as the last one, in Daisy Dukes, a camouflage tank top and cowboy boots stomped up to the bar, "I was worried the drummer wouldn't get any head in the bathroom tonight!"

And the Award Goes To...

I know my sister thinks that I think she is an A-hole, just because she doesn't pick up trash she drops on the floor or wear clean socks that match. But she isn't an A-hole. She is A-mazing.

We just got back from a terrible battle with Brain Tumor Pirates (Please refer to "Pirates Are Holding My Father Hostage") and I have to say, that if my sister had not been one of my shipmates on this voyage, we may never have made it home at all.

Despite what you may have heard about her, during this battle, never once did my sister: Shoplift, wipe up a spill with a sock, take a crap in anything that was not a toilet, leave broken glassware and a pile of wine soaked towels on the bathroom floor for me to clean up the next morning, barf in the bathtub, barf on me, barf on my mom, barf in a Whataburger parking lot, threaten bodily harm to strangers, loose her shoes, loose my shoes or get arrested.

So I don't know if Vikings gave awards to each other back in the day, but this family of Vikings does. And I will have you know, that Best Supporting Sister will be going to my sister.

Welcome Home, Tumors

I brought my dad's brain tumors home! They were totally done hanging out in Houston. The humidity was making their tumor hair frizzy and they were NOT impressed with the Mexican food in Houston at all. After a serious patting down by a TSA official and some wings in the airport, my dad, my mom, my brother, the tumors and I arrived in Albuquerque to a warm reception by my many rowdy nieces and nephews.

My dad ate a shit-load of peanuts while we gathered the shit-load of luggage from the baggage claim. The tumors are at home resting now, until my parents take them back to Houston in March for Spring Break. Wooooo! Tuuuumooorrrr! Sprriiing Breaakk!!!

Remember, All Inappropriate Comments Will Be Taken Seriously.

While in an airport in a foreign land, it is important to abide by all safety rules, including those specific to not making "inappropriate comments."

I arrived in the United Republic of Texas yesterday to visit my dad's brain tumors. My friend and I drove all night to get there, singing show tunes and reliving the latest season of Glee. We had to pick my sister up at the Bush Intersexualbiracialsupercontinental Airport. After a harrowing jet pack flight and tandem canoe paddling adventure to get to the proper terminal, we had to ride a train to return to the skyscraper where our rented vehicle was parked.

My sister invited a stranger from the platform to ride in our car of the "sex wagon." That man should have paid closer attention to the constant inter-terminal announcements: "All inappropriate comments will be taken seriously."