Mr. Shark has a conversation with Santa

Dear Mr. Shark,
What do you want for Christmas?

 - Santa







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Oh hey Santa.

First of all, thank you for asking and not just assuming I'd want a reindeer. My mother got me one last year...I didn't have the heart to tell her, (I'm not even sure sharks have hearts) but I've never really liked them. The meat is pretty gamey, and the antlers scratch my throat. And I won't even get into what they're like coming out the other end.

Anyway it was a big mess. I didn't have the original receipt, so when I tried to return it I could only get store credit.  There wasn't anything else I wanted at the reindeer store, so now I'm stuck with this dead deer I'll never use crammed in the back of my closet. Fortunately my closet is THE OCEAN, so there's plenty of room for it I suppose.

I'm not a big fan of elves either. You'd think they'd taste like candy, but they are also surprisingly gamey. And they get all in your teeth. Last time I ate one I spent the whole rest of the day flossing out their sticky little fingers.

As for what I do want, seals are always a good go-to. You can never have to many, kind of like socks.

Honestly though, what I'd really LOVE this Christmas is you. You're so festively plump...I'm just dying to sink my teeth into that bowl full of jelly.  Plus you eat cookies all the time so I bet your blood tastes like cinnamon. I know it's a lot to ask, but I've been good this year...as good as any bloodthirsty murderous predator of the sea can be, anyway.

All I can say is, if I find your delicious corpse under my tree Christmas morning, I'll be as giddy as a schoolgirl covered in dead puppies.

Love,
Mr. Shark

The pug collector

Hello relatives. So glad we could get together again for the holidays, that special time of year when you all compete to make the most inappropriate comment about my romantic life. From impossible
questions like “I know you're not dating anyone, but are you at least having sex?” to last year’s revelation that “an accident baby would be totally fine with us,” you never fail to keep me on my toes. But this year, I’m confident all the awkward remarks and emails of sperm donor profiles you think “look nice” are going to stop. Everyone gather ‘round please, I have an announcement to make.

I’ve started a family.

Hahaha! No, it’s not a family of cats. I’m not some kind of crazy person. Plus you know I’m allergic. They’re pug dogs!

At first I just had one for companionship, a little present I gave to myself on my 30th birthday. But since then, I’ve gone pug wild! After this month’s litter, our family will be 25 strong. Clearly with this many pugs in one household, kids are out of the question. But don’t worry mom, I assure you my little puggies are just as surprising, rewarding, and soothing to breastfeed as human children.

If you don’t believe me, just take a look at the adorable pillows they gave me for Mother’s Day! See the intricate cross-stitching? The thread was spun from all the fur they shed over the past year. Isn’t that sweet? Well, yes, obviously I did all the physical sewing myself, but they provided the delightful dog-isms. I couldn’t have come up with something like “I woof you very much” on my own! And just look at the charming misspellings and cute little backwards “e’s” (silly pugs don’t know the alphabet!)

Now I know what you’re thinking, “how do you keep coming up with names for all these snub-nosed angels?” It’s a simple formula really. My eldest, John, was of course named after my father (I think they have the same chin.) Successive pugs were named after my failed relationships, starting with Brooks Jackson, the middle school crush who made fun of my sticker collection and the fact that my boobs hadn’t grown in yet, all the way to Adventureguy72, the Match.com date who still hasn’t called (and also had no appreciation for my sticker collection.) When I ran out of ex-lovers I began naming them after television stars I find attractive (no chance I’ll run out of those, lol!)

And yes, the pugs are all male.  I find that females of any species always end up being jealous of me.

Anyway, let me pass around the photo album, I know you’re dying to see all my babies. Oh, and does anyone have a laptop? I want to show you guys the hilarious home video we made last Saturday night. It’s based on my personal strength idol Fergie and her hit song “Fergalicious.” Hugh Laurie, my rascally middle child, had the great idea to change the words to “pugalicious.” We already had plenty of costumes, so we decided to record a little music video. What a hoot!  Let’s all watch
it together. Don’t be embarrassed dad, the first time I saw it I laughed so hard I cried too!

Ok, I’ll get down from the table now. I guess this has been a pretty long toast, and you guys look like you need to start drinking.

Cheers and Happy Howlidays everyone!

Top 5 things to do with my recently extracted wisdom teeth.

1. Hide them in a co-worker's sandwich. When they take a bite, yell "IT BIT YOU BACK!"

2. Wear them on a necklace and tell everyone they belong to people I've killed (seems a little cliche though.)

3. Mail them to an ex-boyfriend I haven't spoken to in years with no explanation or return address.

4. Carve an entire set of baby teeth from them, and donate to a baby in need.

5. Stocking stuffers!

A 15-year word itch

One day in middle school, my friends Amy, Lauren and I were outside and noticed something like this: 

"Look at that stupid bird, it's all puffed up. I think it is trying to intimidate us."


"Yes, yes, birds do that, they puff up to look intimidating.  There's a word for it....I can't think of the word."

We discussed the issue for a while (possibly for hours), but could not come up with the word.  We figured that surely one of us would think of it eventually, probably hours later in bed or something, and we'd all know the answer by morning.

"The answer is Garfinkel, hooray!"

Unfortunately, the aha! moment never happened...

(did not happen)

Since then, this mysterious avian jargon has pecked relentlessly at the back our brains, causing the annoyance to swell very much like a bird trying to look intimidating.  We've done numerous internet searches, watched nature documentaries and even consulted bird experts at the zoo, all to no avail.  Once, at a raging Georgia Tech house party, Amy and I spent an entire evening thumbing through an Audubon Society bird encyclopedia.  It's been fairly ridiculous.

Today, Amy will be looking at a couple of new phones at the phone store.  She's planning on asking the Iphone Siri what the word is for when birds puff up to look intimidating.  I've been thinking about getting this phone too. My decision will be based 100% on whether or not it delivers the correct answer to the age-old question..."What the f@&k is this bird doing?!?!"

Childhood songs that kept it real

These days, kids songs are all just pansy, self-esteem boosting crap. But back in the day they were all about cannibalism, death and getting dragged to hell by goblins.  Here are a few me and my cousins used to sing:

Mr. Johnny Verbeck
Once there was a Dutchman
His name was Johnny Verbeck
He made the finest sausages and sauerkraut and speck.
He made the finest sausages that'll evermore be seen,
Till one day he invented a sausage making machine.


Chorus:
Oh, Mr. Johnny Verbeck how could you be so mean,
I told you, you'd be sorry for inventing that machine
now all the neighbors cats and dogs will nevermore be seen
They'll all be ground into sausages in Johnny Verbeck's machine.

One day the meat inspector came knocking at the door,
He said "I'll start a looking or give me money more."
Well Johnny got real angry and pushed him in the meat,
he fired up the old machine and now there's more to eat.

Chorus

One day the machine got busted, the darn thing wouldn't go,
So Johnny Verbeck he climbed inside to see what made it so.
His wife she had a nightmare, went walkin' in her sleep
She gave it a yank, a deuce of crank, and Johnny Verbeck was meat!

Go tell Aunt Rhody:
Go tell Aunt Rhody
Go Tell Aunt Rhody
Go Tell Aunt Rhody
The old grey goose is dead.

She died in the millpond (3 times)
From standin' on her head.

The goslins are crying (3 times)
Because their mammy's dead.

The gander is weeping (3 times)
Because his wife is dead.

 The Goblins will get you:
Once there was a little boy who wouldn’t say his prayers
And when he went to bed at night, all the way upstairs,
His Mommy heard him holler, and his daddy heard him bawl,
And when they turned the covers down, he wasn’t there at all!

And they searched for him in the attic, and the cubby-hole, and press,
And they searched up the chimney, and everywhere, I guess;
But all they ever found was his pants and round about
And the Goblins will get you, if you don’t watch out.

Once there was a little girl who liked to laugh and grin,
And make fun of everyone, her family and kin
Whenever there was company, and guests were sitting there,
She mocked them and she shocked them, and said she didn’t care!

Suddenly she kicked her heels, and turned to run and hide,
There were two great big Black Things standing by her side,
They snatched her through the ceiling before she knew they were about!
And the Goblins will get you, if you don’t watch out.

Poop reprecussions 20 years later

10/12/11
Katie -  the mom in your fecal drama with the ginger kids in their christening dresses turned up in my water aerobics class.  There was more to that story.  Zach was shooting garage sale arrows that were reaching their back yard. She had come over to complain, and of course our doorbell didn't work. Zach wasn't exactly a powerhouse but her concern was that she was pregnant. Kinda like the "baby on board" on a car mentality. I was busy primitive firing pots in the Weber kettle with lighter fluid and hay. .. Bad scene.  Anyway I'm hopping around with as much grace as possible in the class and keeping my conversation erudite to live down the skanky impression. Love, Nana

Personally, I think this is a great opportunity for Nana to keep it real.  Next time, I recommend bringing a (waterproof) bow and arrow to class. Point it at her every once in a while...just to make sure she knows that if she ever dares to tread (aerobically or otherwise) in your section of the pool, she will pay with her life.

Poop: from the archives

On a recent visit to Chicago my brother Justin and I saw our cousins Zach and Annie after almost a decade.  In typical holiday style we did a lot of ham-eating and childhood reminiscing, telling stories from those five or so years when we were all eight years old and left to run wild in the care of our grandmother, Nana.  There were several gems, but one in particular stands out...mainly because it involves poop. 

We were at Nana's, of course, taking a break from making clay pinch pots (or eating clay…or birth control pills…or glow in the dark toys) to patrol our territory in the back yard.  Our fort was under constant threat of invasion from the house behind us.  The ginger kids who lived in the yard were creepy and awkwardly clean, wearing christening gowns and chasing butterflies across their unnaturally manicured lawn.  I'd like to think they were also French. 

It was during routine booby-trap maintenance that Justin (the elder) came up with our most ambitious defense maneuver to date.

We were going to arm the holes with human poop. 

Zach nearly crapped himself on the spot from excitement, while Annie and I offered up half-hearted "ewws" to fulfill our girl roles.  But in our hearts we knew we'd be right there to witness every filthy step of the shit spectacle.  

Though never discussed, it was understood the poop was the responsibility of the eldest, so for the next few hours Justin focused steadfastly on his goal, devouring every piece of roughage he could get his grimy hands on.  The sheer volume his stomach could hold was both awe-inspiring and repulsive.  When the moment finally arrived, he darted up the stairs to the bathroom and set to his business as we clamored behind.  What seemed like hours later, and after a notably absent flush, he opened the door and let us in to view his digestive masterpiece. 

Once we had accepted its enormity, we had to figure out how to move the beast.  Transport was precarious.  Nobody wanted to touch it (would have been gross) so we had to figure out an elaborate cup/bucket transfer system.    Miraculously there was no poo-skin contact, and the fecal weaponry made it to its destination intact.

The gingers were appalled (it was probably the first time they had ever seen poop) but instead of having the desired effect of scaring them away, our plan only lured them closer so they could lecture us on the dangers of poor sanitation.  One was even bold enough to slip through a crack in the fence, effectively invading our side. 

It was on. 

We'd tolerated their polite conversation and their disturbingly freckled faces before, but this time they had crossed the line, quite literally. 

Hatred boiled in our veins.  We knew we needed to take serious action to defend ourselves from the red-headed insurgence.  It was secret-secret weapon time.  Time for arrows.  And not the sissy-kid nerf kind, but real buffalo-hunting, shoot-you-in-the-heart ARROWS.  We had found them the previous day "dumpster diving." They were in mint condition, complete with a functioning bow and razor-sharp arrowheads. It was the perfect moment to unveil their glory. 

After a brief fracas over who got the first shot, Justin took aim at the daintier ginger. Whizz.  Miss.  He passed the bow around, and we each took aim at the red bulls-eyes of the children’s heads as they ran around the yard in terror. We cackled like savages, and our eyes blazed fire as they cowered in true French fashion.  In the confusion, one of them stepped in the poo-hole, letting out a desperate shriek of fear and disgust as they limped off crying.  Either out of pity or archery inexperience we didn't end up actually hitting them with any arrows, but they certainly never bothered us again. 

Success.  Finally we were left alone with our poop, which even Justin admitted had gotten pretty gross at that point.   We ended up burying the poo–baby ceremoniously, and even marked the site like the grave of a beloved pet.

At some point the gingers tattled (of course) and sent over a frantic mother to alert our guardian. But by then we'd moved on to falling into window wells, and her knocks went unnoticed beneath the blaring Celtic music and the hissing of hamburgers on the frying pan.