Ride On

Spring fever was in full swing this weekend, as the weather has finally changed from the cold that makes your balls hibernate and mounds of snow that would give Tony Montana a hard on to sunny days that make you want to roll down the window and blast a little Tom Petty.

The wife and I decided to take the knee-biter over to the in-laws to enjoy some of the afore mentioned sun. Apparently, the girl next door had a birthday party going on, so kids littered the street like Mexicans at the State Fair, and as court ordered I stayed back 500 feet from the rugrats at all times.

I enjoyed an adult beverage on the porch and watched this little munchkin ride his big wheel down the big hill over and over again. Then, his daredevil buddy got on without a helmet and the Kate Gosselin wannabe in charge lost her fucking mind. "No! No! No! Stop! Stop! Stop! You have to wear a helmet!!!". She was running so fast that the friction caused by her hail damaged thighs almost made her spill her Mike's Hard Lemonade.

Look I get it, kids need to be protected and I will probably make my daughter wear a helmet even when she takes a shit on the big girl toilet because I'm a child-worshipping asshole like everyone else these days, but it made me think back to my childhood when nobody wore a helmet except the slow kids and the pussies who had those over-protective Moms.

We used to attach a pipe to our bikes, stuff it with toilet paper, light it on fire and then ride down the hill hitting a board propped up on a cinder block going 20 miles an hour, and there were no helmets involved. Evel Knievel and Fonzie could suck my pre-pubescent dick when I rolled down that hill on my Huffy, and if I went ass over elbows into the grass then so be it.

There was one kid in my friend's neighborhood, who really needed a helmet though. He was one of those kids who was in general population at school, but really should have been in special-ed. The type of kid who took shop eight periods a day, but couldn't build a simple fucking box if his life depended on it. One day we're hanging out and we hear this clank, clank clank, and then we see a horse dragging a fucking bicycle down the street. Ten minutes later this kid comes limping by all jacked up and bleeding. This Darwin award winner tied his bike to his horse. It must have been a gold star day in the Eisler household. Boy wonder was well on his way to a life bagging groceries at Safeway.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to look into buying a new bike, some wood and a cinder block.

Take Off to the Great White North

Well, I'm finally back from Vancouver. I was the third guy in the four man bobsled in case you didn't know. As a little kid I used to ride in the laundry basket down the steps and then later in life I fell in love with cuddling up next to three spandex clad guys, so I decided to combine my interests and bobsledding seemed to fit the bill. Ok, ok, that's stories not entirely true, I'll admit it, I never used to ride in the laundry basket.

Speaking of the Olympics and Canada, I think my brother and I were meant to be Canadian. We love hockey, beer, bacon and donuts and we both have that dark sense of humor. By dark sense of humor I mean we like dick and fart jokes, especially when a dead guy is involved. My sense of humor had a lot to do with my childhood love of the movie Strange Brew, which I still quote to this day, although the wife doesn't appreciate my Bob and Doug McKenzie prowess as much as my brother.

Speaking of Strang Brew, in 7th grade apparently I was "gifted" so they asked me to read the morning announcements. Things went well for a few months and then I started interjecting random eh's and Koolookookookoo-koo-koo-koo's in between sports scores and lunch menus and suddenly they stopped asking me to read the morning announcements. My Adrian Cronauer days were over, so I guess being gifted was OK as long as you didn't have a fucking personality to go along with it. Thus began my lifelong struggle with "The Man".

Now if you'll excuse me I need to call my brother, he's a genius he hooked up our stereo eh?

Ordinary Average Guy

Time for yet another installment of the 19 things I think I know, or more appropriately shit I observe or think about from time to time.

1. If my ankle doesn't start to heal soon, I fear I'll be walking like Ratso from Midnight Cowboy for the rest of my life.

2. Johnny Weir won't discuss his sexuality, but I'm betting that he has an asshole like the Holland Tunnel, not that there's anything wrong with that.

3. What's over 5 feet tall, white, and irritating as hell to look at several days in a row?

Answer: The snow in my driveway, although I also would have accepted Bob Costas.

4. My wife and I had lunch on her one day off alone. I think it might be time to join co-dependency anonymous.

5. At 38 trying to finish before your toddler walks into the bedroom is almost as difficult as being 16 and trying not to finish before your girlfriend walks into the bedroom.

6. The Pens are good enough to win the cup again, but I'm not sure if they are consistent enough to get it done this year. (Nothing humorous or interesting here, just the last time I predicted the Steelers would lose in the playoffs and they won it all, so I'm hoping for the same result.)

7. When a large black man and a Paula Dean look-alike are having brunch together and she says to him "You can get whatever you want on the menu" and he orders mimosas, there is definitely some Grandma cougar pay-to-play going on.

8. My daughter asked me what the Kinks song "Lola" was about, and instead of saying sometimes Daddy's dress up like Mommy's, I just said it was about a girl who liked Coca-cola. She said she didn't like girls who drank Coca-cola. Maybe I should have gone the other way.

9. Jesus is Mexican. No, not the lord and savior, I'm talking about the chef at the Japanese restaurant they tried to pass off as Asian last night.

10. Modern Family is my favorite sitcom these days. Phil (The Dad) talking to his kids about Jagermeister: "You know how in a fairy tale there's always a potion that makes the princess fall asleep and then the guys start kissing her? Well, this is like that except you don't wake up in a castle — you wake up in a frat house with a bad reputation."

11. After the Georgian luger died at the Olympics they moved the men's starting position down to where the women start. Do they think that hitting a steel pole at 75 miles an hour rather than 90 miles an hour would have made a difference?

12. I find Native American culture extremely fucking annoying.

13. My wife doesn't consider discussing my favorite South Park moments appropriate foreplay. (For the record it was the one where Randy was on Wheel of Fortune. YouTube it if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

14. I don't know which was better the music or Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart.

15. Getting a snow day where you can drink beer and watch movies = awesomeness. Getting a snow day where you drink root beer and watch 10 straight hours of Barney = the exact opposite of awesomeness.

16. My size 40 "skinny" jeans are starting to get tight and I can almost fit a stack of quarters into my belly-button, so it might finally be time for the diet and exercise regimen to kick in.

17. I had a dream that I lived in a housing project and I was discussing with a neighbor how I didn't think that black chick's had nice tits. Unbelievably, I wasn't able to find this in Freud's book "The Interpretation of Dreams".

18. My brother-in-law booked a hotel room on the Vegas strip for three nights and the total was $56. Something tells me that I'm either going to end up in a bathtub full of ice missing a kidney or ass-raped and left for dead by the street gang MS-13. (Big props to the History Channel's Gangland for that last reference)

19. Per Chad Dukes on 106.7 the Fan "If you are out on the snowy roads and you have your hazards on, guess what, YOU ARE THE FUCKING HAZARD!" Truer words have never been spoken.

So that's what has been on my mind lately. Now if you'll excuse me I need to look into purchasing a bio-hazard protection suit for this Vegas trip.

People Are Strange, When You're a Stranger

This past weekend I ventured out to the Verizon Center in Washington DC to see the Pens play the Caps. As usual the game was awesome even though the Pens lost in OT, but the real entertainment came in the form of the rare beauty of a dude sitting next to me. Because of the 30" snow storm several seats were empty leaving just three of us in our row. My Dad, me and let's call him the boy wonder. He was one of those guys who looks sort of normal, but in reality was probably 20 years old when he was in the 8th grade. He totally had that stocky retard-strong look to him, the type of kid you don't want to end up alone with in a suburban basement.

Even though we have the entire row to ourselves he remains sitting right next to me, and I notice throughout the game that he is watching me out of the corner of his eye. I try to offer some friendly banter, but I get nothing back except the old stink eye. The Pens are up 4-1 and I'm feeling pretty good, but I can tell that boy wonder is stewing.

During the second period intermission the Caps marketing team throws out these T-shirts from the rafters that are attached to parachutes. One lands on this seven year old kid's back in front of us and boy wonder gets the eye of the tiger, swoops in, grabs it and starts admiring it like Gollum looking at his preciousss. The grandma of the kid turns around says several times "Hey, that's my kids shirt." Boy wonder says nothing, gets up and heads to the bathroom. In my head I'm like holy shit this is going to be fucking great.

He comes back from the bathroom wearing the goddamn Caps t-shirt, which is two sizes two small for his frame and he's gripping the parachute much the same way Lenny from Of Mice and Men holds small animals. The third period is under way, the Caps start making their comeback and boy wonder goes into rare form. He starts throwing these fist pumps in the air like he's on the Jersey Shore beating up the beat. With every goal the Caps score he starts spazzing out more and more.

Finally, my Dad has to bolt to make it back to Delaware to catch a train to Boston, so now I'm alone in an empty row with boy wonder and we're sitting right next to each other as if we're on a fucking Make-a-Wish date. The Caps get a power play in OT and he starts pounding his chest and jumping up and down like a downs syndrome version of King Kong. Finally, the Caps score the game winner and I'm out of there faster than an unveiled woman at a Taliban gathering.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to watch some in-depth documentary to get the vision of boy wonder screaming at the scoreboard "Unleash the Fury!" out of my head.

These Boots are Made for Walking

It has been noted in this blog, that I've had my share of surgeries and emergency room visits over the years, and I added one to the list over the weekend. Sometime last week I trekked up and down the numerous stairs in my townhouse carrying all kinds of heavy shit like I was Magnus ver Magnussen working over some German slob in a late night strong man competition on the ESPN Nordic channel. I felt fine when I went to bed, but by the time I woke up it was like Annie Wilkes from Misery paid me a late night visit to brush up on her hobbling skills.

After checking my symptoms on WebMD, I was convinced that I had a rare form of Leukemia and if I didn't get it checked out immediately I would lose my leg. So the wife and I braved the snow and cold to spend a romantic afternoon at the Reston E.R. Unfortunately, I got the deer in the headlights doctor, whose pants were pulled up to his nipples and he offered absolutely no advice or help. Like a hack psychiatrist he just repeated everything I said back to me, "Doc it's sore between the Achilles and the growth plate." "I see so it's sore right over here between the Achilles tendon and the growth plate." Is there a fucking echo in here? Luckily, he did offer up the good drugs and as usual I played dumb.

Doc: Do you need something stronger than Advil for the pain?"

Me: I think so, it hurts pretty bad.

Doc: Have you ever taken Vicodin before?

Me: I'm not sure, is that something I should take with food?

Doc: Yes, it may irritate your stomach, if you don't.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking fuck no I'm not taking it with food, that ruins the buzz. Pass the Crown, and let's party bitches! As I left the hospital, I realized that I learned nothing about my injury, but I cared less because the Vicodin fog was rolling in.

We headed straight to Target, so that I could keep the V-fog nice and thick. Of course I got there just as the pharmacy closed. Luckily, I caught the chick leaving the pharmacy and like a crazed junkie I begged her to hook me up, and she obliged. Then, she only charged me $5 for two prescriptions. Best drug dealer ever! I spent the remainder of the weekend petting unicorns and hoping that Skittles would fall from the rainbow colored skies.

Finally, this afternoon I saw the specialist. The office was packed with so many people hobbling around, that I had a flashback to the medical unit in Da Nang in '69. After completing a mountain of useless paperwork saying I wouldn't sue them if they ass raped me while I was living in the V-fog, they escorted me back to the little room with the paper on the bed.

The alpha male doc came in and asked me to work the runway. Apparently, I failed the field sobriety test and he fitted me for a boot and ordered me to do physical therapy for 2 weeks. Fuck me! You know how good it feels when you take your ski boots off after a day on the mountain? Yeah, well wearing this boot is the opposite of that. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to have a Better Off Dead dream tonight. "He's skiing on one ski!"

Now if you'll excuse me I need to paint some bitchin' flames on this boot, so everyone at physical therapy knows what a bad-ass I am.

My Angel is a Centerfold

I've been a Playboy subscriber for 5 years now, and while the wife doesn't give me shit for most of my vices, she has hinted that it's time for me to give up my best porno mag. And by hinted, I mean she said "You're a Dad now, put that shit away". Now I must decide if I want to be the creepy old guy who reads Playboy on the shitter much to the chagrin of the Mrs. and the horror of his daughter, or do I want to give up the only magazine I actually read cover to cover. Being a selfish prick, I'll probably hold out for a few more years before acquiescing.

But let's face it, Playboy is hardly pornography. On the list of approved spank material, Playboy is somewhere between the Victoria Secret catalog and watching a Lady Ga Ga video. Warning! Old man about to give the famous "When I was a kid..." speech.

When I was a kid you had to work to see the goods. I would stay up until 4:00 in the morning if the movie on Skinemax advertised even the slightest hint of nudity. I wouldn't go to the bathroom for fear I would miss the three seconds of nipple-vision, and if the movie was rated Strong Sexual Content, forget it, I wasn't leaving the couch unless Richard Simmons was standing there trying to stick his bloody dick in my ear.

Today kids are spoiled when it comes to porn. They don't have to sit through hours of shitty movies to see some boobies. They can watch German circus clowns fuck chickens while quoting Knight Rider with just two mouse clicks. Two Girls One Cup is practically soft-core to today's youth, but something like that wasn't even on the fucking radar when I was in school. Jealous you say? You bet. If I had access to the internet when I was 14 my forearm would have had a tattoo of an anchor on it.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to throw on the 1984 classic "Hot Dog" and give Shannon Tweed the standing ovation she deserves.

Guess Who's Back, Back Again...

Craw is back, tell a friend. I know I've been blogging as often as Daniel Day-Lewis makes movies. What no good? Sorry, I'm a little rusty, I know I've been blogging as often as Harper Lee releases novels. Still no good? Let's try this one last time, I know I've been blogging as often as my Grandmother gets laid. There it is, octogenarian penetration humor, now that feels right! It's like riding a goddamn bike people...

I feel like an alcoholic who's been sober for a few months, but is ready to go on a bender. I'm not saying I'll be the post whore of 2008, that guy would have gone down on an AIDS patient if it meant he could get a good blog post out of it, but hopefully I'll get the word to the page at least once a week this year. So you can stop by, read my shit and say to yourself "My life may not be a bowl of cherries but at least I'm not this ass-tard." As a side note adding 'tard' to the end of any curse word instantly makes me smile like a gold medal winner at the Special Olympics.

So there you have it, my Martin Luther King Jr.'s Day resolution, blog once a week and try to have a dream, not about racial equality, but about Jersey Shore chicks getting punched in the face, because that shit is much funnier.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to replace the lube I borrowed from my Grandma, before she gets home from Red Lobster.