On Reflection*

I know everyone thinks they have good taste -- even though they mostly don't.

Luckily, my wife and I share the same taste in decorating -- not too modern, not too "country" -- maybe a bit too much toward the antiques-and-farmhouses side of things. I say that simply to enforce the fact that normally, I am OK with whatever home decorations my wife wants to indulge in.

I will admit that I like things less cluttered than she does (my office/music room/library notwithstanding). I don't like knickknacks on tables and counters. In the kitchen, for instance, I am not a fan of decorative bottles of olive oil that you will never, ever open and use, or fancy bottles of assorted sizes with absolutely nothing in them that just sit there looking pretty and take up valuable counter space.

That holds true in the bathroom as well. Our bathroom isn't too bad in that regard -- most of what's in there serves a useful purpose. Magazine rack: check. Candles and air-fresheners: check. Toothbrush holder and soap dispenser: check.

It's when we get to the back of the toilet that I have a problem. Here is the current decorating scheme:

I know what you're all thinking. "That's not too bad," you say inside your heads. Or maybe outside your heads if you've been living alone for a while.

But let me break it down for you.

Everyone reading this knows what the Kleenex is for -- it's mostly there for when you don't realize there's no toilet paper until it's too late. At least that's my theory, which has been proven to be true on multiple occasions. But the mirror? I'm not really clear on that. I suppose if you were a woman, you might want to check your makeup while sitting on the pot. I'm sure it's been done, however not being a woman and generally not wearing makeup, I've never tried it. That's not the problem, however.

The problem is this:

If you are between 5'6" and 5'10"* and standing where one would normally stand to take a piss, you have a pretty good chance of getting a free show -- one in which your penis gets top billing.

That is not a show I want to see on a regular basis. Or on any basis for that matter. It's bad enough I have to look down at it for control purposes, but I don't feel the need to simultaneously cover two different angles. I'm peeing, not creating performance art.

One Thanksgiving, my brother Houdini came back after a trip to the bathroom looking a little disconcerted. He walked over to me and asked quietly, "So what's with the dick mirror?" I just shrugged, pointed toward the kitchen, and told him to go ask my wife.

I am tempted to put a sticker on it that says "WARNING: OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE LARGER THAN THEY APPEAR" just to make myself feel better. I also recently discovered that there is a magnifying mirror on the other side, so for obvious reasons I keep flipping it around. My wife keeps flipping it back. I'm not sure why.

I am taking a little break for about a week, so I'll see you all after the intermission. And if you can stand to do it one last time, go here and vote for me. It's the last couple hours. Thanks for helping me win the $50 (I'm jumping the gun a bit, here but...). Now help me decide where to donate it.

*The title of this post comes from a Gentle Giant song. The lyrics are not intended to be penis-related.
*or over 6' and particularly well-endowed


Elvis would have tufts of ear hair.

I saw an article this week talking about how this University in the UK used some program they've developed to "age" a picture of Elvis in order to find out what he would look like today if he were still alive. It turns out that he would look a lot like the illegitimate love child of Powers Boothe and Ernest Borgnine:

It also turns out that a variation of the program used by the researchers at said university is available online.

Upon seeing this, I decided to see what I would look like in another few years when I turn 72.

I worked my way through the menus and followed all the instructions --moving ovals over my eyes and mouth, answering questions about the shape of my head, and giving away other seemingly innocuous information that I can only assume will be one day used to steal my identity.

After all that, did I get to see what I'd look like when I'm 72?

No, of course not. "Old age" was not one of the choices.

I could, however, see what I would look like as: (1) a baby (2) a west-asian (3) drunk (4) an El Greco painting (5) a japanese anime character (6) a black man, and lastly (7) 50% chimp.

OK, University of St. Andrews, WTF? You're telling me that Half-Chimp is a choice, but "old guy" isn't?

On the other hand, who hasn't at one time or another looked into a mirror and thought, "I wonder what I would look like as a half-chimpanzee?"

Anyway, I ran this picture through their available filters and...well, the results were disturbing, to say the least. You may get sick. You may pee your pants laughing. You may do both simultaneously. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Without further ado, let the games begin.

This first shot is what I would look like if I were some sort of freak baby mutie. The hills definitely have eyes. Picture me gnawing on your calf for the full effect:

As a west-asian, this is what I would look like while relaxing between Islamic rages. You are all filthy infidels:

In this next photo -- according to the computer program -- I am drunk. Apparently being drunk makes my eyes really shiny and my teeth glow with an unholy white light. Maybe I should stay drunk all the time:

This next one is me if I had posed for El Greco. Someone should check to see if he is really dead, because for some reason, everyone he paints resembles Nosferatu:

In this next one, I am supposed to look like a japanese anime, however I think I look more like Hank Azaria after he gnawed his way out of a 50lb. sack of espresso beans:

Here you can see I bear a striking resemblance to Lionel Ritchie -- that is if Lionel Ritchie had blue eyes, straight hair, and a dirty nose:

Last but certainly not least, this shows you what I would look like if my mom had married a chimp. Or maybe if she had actually been a chimp. I'm not sure if they based the "half-chimp filter" on the maternal or paternal side. You be the judge:

It looks like slightly more than "half" chimp to me, but hey -- chimp is like cowbell, am I right?

I still don't know what I'll look like at age 72, but I guess with a little luck I can wait it out.


fancy restaurant = fancy bathroom tiles = fancy pee pad.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were wandering around an outside strip mall and she wanted to treat me to dinner. We decided to go to this place called Provence because she had been there quite a few times for lunch and said it was really good and reasonably priced. That's lunch. Dinner wasn't so "reasonably priced," but that's not the story here. Our waiter's name was Steve, and he was excellent. I saw him "arrange" our bread on his way out of the kitchen though, and I don't like people touching my food. The meals were good, but way too elaborate for my unsophisticated palate. This story has more to do with their fancy bathroom than their fancy meals.

I've posted once before about becoming a stall man, and the reasons why. Or, rather the reason why, and that reason is because I don't like standing in sticky, half dried floor-pee. So I thought this was the greatest thing ever:

Yes. It is a pee pad. Because I am not really used to going to upscale restaurants, this is the first time I had ever seen one of these. Normally, the types of establishments that I frequent make you pay for your meal before you actually eat it, and if the bathroom has any sort of pee pad it's entirely coincidental and consists mainly of a pile of soggy paper towels and someone's vomit-stained sweatshirt.

At first, I wondered to whom the cleaning duties fell, because that seemed like something I would like to see my worst enemy do, if I had a worst enemy. I figured there was a sign next to the time clock that said:




Then, because I don't want to mislead you all, I did some research. It turns out that they are disposable and contain "inner super absorbent Trilex 20™ fibers to catch drips and splashes." I don't know what that is, but it sounds very scientifically valid. Supposedly, "Once the mat reaches its saturation level, you simply throw it away and replace with another."

I am not sure I want to know exactly how "saturation level" is determined. I can only hope there is an alarm of some sort that warns someone that saturation level is fast approaching -- preferably someone who knows how to deal with such things.

Otherwise, your single, errant pee drip could be the one that breaks the camel's back and releases a urinary flood of epic proportions.

I know I wouldn't want that on my conscience. Or my shoes.


Possum. It's what's for dinner.

About two years ago, we decided to get rid of as much of the carpet in the house as we could. We had two cats and both were white, and the carpet was dark green. That is recipe for disaster no matter how often you shave them pink. As you can imagine, the carpet was almost impossible to keep hair-free, since for some unknown reason, our cats seem to spend more time writhing around on their backs than Lindsay Lohan.

We replaced everything we could with hardwood flooring, with the exclusion of the stairwell between the first floor and second floor. We didn't want to pull the carpet up there because we knew the stairs underneath were just "builder quality," and we figured we'd just save our money until we could afford to have someone replace them. After we had the upstairs floor finished, my wife decided to paint the stairwell, since it was pretty banged up. What happened next is this: She dropped a half gallon of antique white latex paint down the stairs. She will tell you that she did it by mistake. She was almost completely done with her paint job by the time she did this, so either she is telling me the truth or she is devious enough to think it would be more believable if she finished the job first. At any rate, this meant we had to pull up and discard the carpet on the stairs. What was underneath was pretty bad. Stringers cut with a circular saw, and what amounted to scrap wood for treads and risers. Paint and plaster all over.

Carpet covers a multitude of sins, and that's a fact.

We didn't have the money to replace the stairs, so we thought we'd get a quote on having them re-carpeted. Turns out, carpeting stairs is the thing most carpet guys hate the most, and the prices we got were between six and seven hundred bucks. I am nothing if not a cheap bastard so obviously I thought to myself "For 600 bucks, screw the carpet. I can build the new stairs myself for less than that."

I can do it myself for less.

I never seem to learn. Out of all the times those words have come out of my mouth, I would say about 75% of the time, I am wrong. But I am like a gambler in that respect -- I remember the wins and try to forget the losses. Don't get me wrong; Most of the time when the job is complete, I'm happy for having had the experience, but in the end it always seems to cost me more, if not in actual money, then in tremendous ass-pain. I decided I was going to do it anyway.

I mentioned this plan to my father, who mentioned it to a builder friend of his. His builder friend laughed heartily at my foolishness, then said that he had a set of precut stringers that he thought might work, and I could have them for free.

Free is better than not free, unless you're talking about furniture or hookers, so I took them. I made some rough measurements, and pronounced them most likely good. I sanded them, painted them, cut all the treads and risers, made about 70 wedges for keeping everything together and enlisted the help of a friend of mine who can make just about anything with wood, and make it better than I ever could. He makes fine furniture for a living and custom electric guitars for fun. And his boss had done stairs before and shared some tips with him. He bought a book on building stairs before coming over. That's the kind of guy he is.

On Saturday, we ripped out the old stairs. Being a meticulous and cautious sort, my friend suggested we try to get the old stairs removed without completely destroying them, since we weren't 100% sure the new stringers would work. All in all, we only had to saw through about half the treads to get them out.

When we had a giant hole where the stairs were supposed to be, we brought in one of the new stringers to figure out the length. Rise and run calculations are not fun, I can tell you that much.

We made cardboard templates, we enlisted non-euclidean geometry and I am pretty sure we came unknowingly close to summoning the Old Ones. After all was said and done, it turns out that the rise and run on the new stringers was just a tiny bit different than the old ones (the old steps, not the Old Ones), by about 1/16" per step. Which meant either the top step would be a couple inches longer and lower than it should have been, or each step would be at a slight downward angle. Neither of these solutions was optimal, unless my goal was to make it really easy for someone to break their ass on the stairs. So as a result of this, we had to put the old ones back in, 1/3 of which were cut into pieces. No fun at all.

So until I can get some new stringers cut and try again NEXT weekend, we have Cletus stairs, fit for a Louisiana Bayou shack:

On the plus side, it sure does help circulate the musty basement smell throughout the living room, and that's something we've been trying to accomplish for a while.

If the stairs don't work out next weekend, I think I'm just going to install a net. Then we can scamper up and down it like a couple of spider monkeys.


Pickup truck dude will bite me. As soon as I have 200 bucks.

Every morning, I leave my house to go to work at approximately the same time. It is extremely early, and most sane people are still watching the inside of their eyelids. I, however, and barreling down a godforsaken highway at roughly 80 mph, and generally the traffic is light enough so I don't have any issues with ass-munch drivers. Generally.

In the last month or so, I've picked up a lamprey eel, who sits in my blind spot and drives exactly my speed. I hate that like nothing else. It's my speed goddammit, pick your own and then go it. Or if you want to go mine, slow down for a while and wait until I'm way ahead of you. Don't be a tool and slow down and speed up with me because you think I have a radar detector.

This guy is a douchebag. And not just because he goes my speed. In fact, his ultra-high level on the douchbaggedness scale is based strictly on the type of rap music he listens to while driving. He's white. His music is angry. It says "what it do" and "Yeah. Uh huh" a lot. It hates women. It is liberally sprinkled with misogynistic phrases that appear approximately, oh...I don't know....EVERY VERSE and CHORUS would be my guess. On Wednesday, the chorus was simple enough to remember, so I looked it up. Turns out it's someone with the rap name of "Webbie." Here are the song lyrics if you're curious.

Normally, I wouldn't give a shit, and I'd say he can listen to whatever excuse for music he wants to. That's normally. But here's the non-normal problem:

You're probably wondering how I know what he's listening to, given the 80mph air-gap between our two vehicles. Or maybe you have experienced this irritation and already know. Not only does this dude go my speed, he also shares my frequency -- 89.9 on the FM dial if you are keeping track. This happens to be the best frequency in the area for a Griffin i-Trip, and the only frequency that is solid all the way from north buttscratch where I live to south buttscratch where I work.

The problem is, his transmitter is much stronger than mine and overrides my signal. I will be driving along listening to Dropping Daylight or Fountains of Wayne when suddenly I'm getting all Chingy wit' it, whether I want to be or not. When it happened the first couple of times, I just turned off my radio and slowed down, but I needed a good 1/8 mile between us before it would fade out. Then I figured I'd change my frequency, but I couldn't find one that didn't get overridden by some local FM station at some point during my trip.

After a while, I found another solution. I simply began to like rap music. It started growing on me. I began looking forward to our daily highway meeting. The simple, repetitive beat, the women-hating lyrics, it all began to make sense. I was beginning to understand the gangsta rap philosophy. No, I'm kidding. I don't have any bitches or hos that I beat up on a regular basis so I really have no business dabbling in that subculture.

My solution is not simple. It will take time, and it will take money -- but as god is my witness, I will force him to listen to MY music.

I figure i am pretty good with a soldering iron, and I can build this and this. Yes, I realize it will get me on the FCCs most wanted list, if they have one. Yes, I realize I am planning on running a pirate radio station from a moving vehicle. And yes, I am going to CRUSH this guy.

Now I just need to decide on the music. What band or music would a hard-core rapper absolutely hate? I'm open to suggestions. I can always turn my radio off while I broadcast.


Hazel is Nuts.

I usually don't pay much attention to the ads over there on the right that Google AdSense pukes up every time you refresh this page, but for some reason I decided to click on one the other day. A few clicks later, and this was on my screen:

Had I wandered into some perverted fetishist web site? Was I looking at the blow back from a particularly grisly Tarantino shotgun scene?

No, although either of those things would have made more sense.

In fact, I had wandered into a place that sells creams and oils and bubble baths and scented paraphernalia of every kind, all designed to make you better than you were before. Better. Stronger. Faster. We have the techn-- No, wait. I'm thinking of something else.

That picture up there is actually a woman who has (presumably voluntarily) slathered coffee grounds all over herself. While not technically identical to what comes out of a can of Maxwell House, it does appear to share much of its overall texture. They've apparently created a "special formula" by adding shea nut oil, olive oil, grapeseed oil and something called Babassu,* all in an effort to differentiate this from the "special formula" under your sink that has the eggshells and soggy cheerios mixed in it.

According to the website:

"Coffee Scrubs are quickly becoming the prized product of the beauty industry. They are an excellent source of caffeine that pampers the skin -- by awakening dead skin cells. The bonus is that Coffee is also an excellent exfoliant and a great anti-cellulite treatment. We have infused our Coffee Scrub with wonderful oils of Shea Nut, Olive, Grapeseed and Babassu. Each of these oils work in harmony to realign stagnant skin cells and speed nourishment to all areas of the body. If you crave a superior scrub -- that your body will devour -- our coffee scrubs are a perky jolt of body luxury!"

Let's take a look at these claims.

Claim number one: They claim their body scrub is an excellent source of caffeine. I will give them that much, since I believe caffeine can be absorbed through the skin pretty easily. That being said, I think you'd probably absorb more caffeine from the inside than the outside. Given that fact, it just seems easier to drink a big mug of coffee to get my daily caffeine fix rather than dealing with errant coffee grounds packed into my asscrack all day. Maybe that's just me, I don't know.

Coffee Grounds in Bad Places: Strike One.

Also, according to claim number one, this product awakens dead skin cells. I am pretty sure I would not enjoy having all my dead skin cells suddenly awakened. I, for one, do not want zombie skin. What if they start attacking the living skin cells in order to eat their mitochondria? I could have a microscopic version of Night of the Living Dead happening right on my own self.

Potential Zombie Skin: Strike Two.

Claim number two: It is apparently an "excellent exfoliant" and "great anti-cellulite treatment." I will give them a free pass on the "excellent exfoliant" part. Mostly because any granular substance that is harder than your skin is an excellent exfoliant. Beach sand and fish tank gravel are two exfoliants that come to mind. Also, falling off your motorcycle. As for the anti-cellulite claims, get real. Cellulite is clumpy fat. Short of an electric carving knife, there is nothing you can rub on your clumpy fat to make it go away. Period.

Clumpy Fat Lies: Strike Three.

Normally, I think that would be a strike-out, but since I know nothing about baseball, I am going to continue.

Claim number three: They say the added oils "work in harmony to realign stagnant skin cells." This confuses me. Number one, if my skin cells are stagnant, wouldn't I want them gone? Stagnant sounds bad, and has smelly connotations. Also, how am I to know they are truly out of alignment? I mean, they feel ok. I'm worried that maybe they are perfectly aligned but still could be in a stagnant state. Is this stuff going to screw up my alignment, or does it somehow differentiate between the various stagnant cells and only go after the ones that are getting out of line? Are stagnant cells that are in alignment a good thing or a bad one? I don't know.

Confusing, and grosses me out a little: Strike Four.

That's what I get for looking at my own ads. I should know better. You guys present me with a problem, however. On the one hand, I want you to look at them because I get a penny or something. On the other hand, I would like to save you all from rubbing garbage on yourselves. It's a quandary.

This same company sells something they call "Bath Fudge" that looks like this:

You're all on your own with that one. Good luck.

Vote if ya feel like it.
There's some new whippersnapper gettin' all up in my bidniss.

*which looks a lot like a phonetic representation of how they pronounce the name "Bobby Sue" down south.


By request.

Too Big For My Rectum, Too Small For My Heart
written by Johnny Virgil and performed by Clay Aiken*

I sat in a booth at a diner in Tulsa
eating a slice of Donella's peach pie

You walked right past me, you looked right at me
you didn't remember, you didn't say "hi"

It was a rest stop in Denver a summer ago
where we met and made love in my cabover pete

You were gentle and kind but when you left my behind
it felt like a pound of prime angus ground beef

You were too big for my rectum, too small for my heart
Too married to her and too soon we did part
I swore if our paths ever crossed on the road
Truck scales be damned, I'd take on your load
Too big for my rectum, too small for my heart

Donella came over and saw tears in my eyes
Business was slow so she sat for a while

I told her my story, she said she was sorry
But a big guy like me just wasn't your style

Just then a blonde walked by us and joined you
Donella just nodded as I stood up to leave her

I threw down a twenty for a 5 dollar tab
I couldn't believe that you settled on beaver

(chorus x2)
You were too big for my rectum, too small for my heart
Too married to her and too soon we did part
I swore if our paths ever crossed on the road
Truck scales be damned, I'd take on your load
Too big for my rectum, too small for my heart

Get the vote out

*If you are confused by this post, read the previous one. If you are still confused, then there's not much else I can do.


Google Me

Those of you who have been hanging around here for a while know that occasionally I post the Site-Meter searches that lead people to my blog. Over the years, I seem to have become a magnet for strange searches that revolve around topics such as Flava Flav (I mentioned him ONE TIME, for god's sake), butt plugs, and all things scrotum. I am fairly certain that most of that is due to me publishing the questions that lead people here, and my subsequent advice for those searchers. It's a vicious and disturbing cycle, but most of the time it's a fun one. I haven't done this in a while, so it's time. Without further ado, I present:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site

A butt plug out dancing -- I'm assuming here that you are not actually looking for a butt plug out dancing, but just in case there's a 3% chance that you are:

I'm 97% sure that you're searching Google to see if perhaps wearing a butt plug out dancing is a good or bad thing to do, and whether anyone will be the wiser. I am no expert, having never actually worn a butt plug, however not being an expert has never prevented me from giving you advice in the past and today is no different. I've found that you can usually tell which dancer has the butt plug just by paying close attention to facial expressions. For instance, take a look at this picture:

Can you spot the person wearing the butt plug? Look closely at the facial expressions. They are a dead giveaway. In case you're having trouble, I've gone ahead and labeled the picture for you:

(Note: Zombie chicks are also easy to pick out once you learn how. Hint: check the eyes.)

how do I know how big of a butt plug I can take? -- Well, again I have to say I'm no expert, but I would size it like you size a ring at the jewelers, only in reverse. Instead of sliding the ring down the cone until it stops, you shove the cone into the ring until it stops. Then you just have a really good friend read off the number.

what do to when your husband is looking at transvestites -- My advice is to spend this private time wisely. I suggest using it to draw up the divorce papers.

why do your testicles hang so low in the morning after sleeping naked -- I was not aware that this was a problem for people. Do you sleep hanging from the ceiling like some sort of giant bat, by chance? Because that's about the only way I can see this being an issue. Even then, I am pretty sure there would have to be ropes and weights involved. I suggest maybe looking into a sackectomy. Maybe you could have the excess made into a nice wallet.

I have black moles on my penis -- I suggest you try some of this:

too big for my rectum -- I think you are onto something here. This totally sounds like the beginning of a country song title, and it just needs to be finished up. Picture Jay Leno introducing Clay Aiken. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Clay Aiken singing "Too Big for My Rectum, Too Small for My Heart." See? Perfect.

stinging nettles on labia -- Ow. I don't even have a labia and this hurts me. Rule number one: If you are in an environment which may include stinging nettles, keep your labia covered at all times. Rule number two: For f*ck's sake, see rule number one and put that thing away. No good can come of waving it around.

piano teacher cut my labia -- I suggest you immediately find a different piano teacher. Perhaps we need to amend Rule number one to include locations with stinging nettles and also pianos.

baking soda and the vagina -- I believe I can help you here. I think you just need to know the full title of the book before you'll be able to narrow down your search. I can only assume you are looking for the new publication entitled "Baking Soda and the Vagina - A Retrospective" by Arm & Hammer. It's fascinating stuff. I was honored to have contributed this post to the first chapter.

what causes a guppy to swim upside down? -- Usually, it's a serious health condition called Death, and as far as I know, there is no cure.

do men wash their ass? -- Speaking as a man, I would have to say that yes, as a general rule, we do. I personally wash my ass at least twice a day, whether it needs it or not. Now, as with all things, there are exceptions to the rule. In this case, there is a particular subset of men who attend professional conferences like Lotusphere the IBM Advisor conference, and these men tend to NOT wash their ass. Avoid going to these conferences if at all possible.

please help dogs testicles turned black really worried -- I am of absolutely no use to you on this matter, since I do not have a dog, let alone one with black testicles. I will say this however -- I'll bet you're not half as worried as your dog is.

That's it for today, ladies and gentlemen. I'm off to write the lyrics to that Clay Aiken song I was telling you about. Wish me luck, and keep an eye out for me at this year's CMT awards ceremony.



OK, maybe this is old news, but I haven't been watching much TV lately. I sat down to lunch and flipped on MythBusters and watched them try to light boats on fire with mirrors. While I was eating my sandwich, I glanced up and saw this on my TV:

"Did I just see pubes on soap?" I asked myself, mostly because there was nobody else in the room to ask.

I grabbed the remote and hit rewind.

The answer is: Yes. Yes, I did just see pubes on soap.*

I found this hilarious, and disgusting, and there's a lot wrong with that picture up there.

It's an advertisement for Old Spice Body Wash, and they make their point, as far as that goes. What they're not showing you, however, is the corollary to the soap, i.e., the pube-covered loofah, which is how you're usually supposed to apply body wash.

I'm betting it's way tougher to get pubes out of one of those things than it is to wash them off the soap. I'm pretty sure that over time, the pubes will just become part of the loofah, eventually just taking it over until you're basically scrubbing yourself with a 4" ball of curly pubic hair. I'll let you know, since my wife just came home with Irish Spring body wash and I just started using it.

All that aside, if you're living with someone who doesn't wash their own pubes off the soap, then you need to have a discussion. Especially if you're not dating or married to that person. They should dig them off with their fingernails if they have to, because I would rather you have pubes jammed under your nails than be forced go in the shower after you and find something like that picture.

Also, that guy in the commercial? He has another problem they're not showing you. He might be able to get away without touching the soap by using his handy-dandy body wash, but what's he going to do about the fact that the water is up to the middle of his calf because pube-boy left him a little hairy mat down there that's plugging up the drain? You can only move that thing out of the way with your toe so many times, is all I'm saying.

I have to admit, I still feel a little feminine using a loofah. At least I had to use the internet to look up what it was called. Up until today I called it the "scrubber-thing." I think I might go back to that. 

Lastly, vote for me dammit. I want to be able to say I won something for once in my life. Also, I would like to prove this anonymous douchebag wrong:

This is the last time I'll be bugging you about that, I promise. I feel like such a whore.

*Which I initially thought would be an awesome name for a punk band. But then I realized that punks generally aren't the most hygienic people on earth, so maybe not.


I think I've got wood thrush.

I know that sounds like some sort of chronic pecker disease, but it's not. It's actually the type of bird that is nesting in one of my wife's hanging plants, at least according to the internets. She was watering the plant one day a couple of weeks ago, and a bird flew out of it. When she took the plant down to look inside, she saw three tiny blue eggs. Each one was about the size of a dime.

I say "was" because as you all know, the world is full of dangerous predators who can't wait to get their mouths around some tasty wood thrush eggs. I figured that if I didn't make my move some other critter was going to beat me to it. So I did the only thing I could do:

No, I kid. I didn't really eat them. And to prove it, here they are right after they were hatched:

If you tapped on the side of the pot, you could get them to do their Rosie O'Donnell impersonation*:

We left them alone for about a week and a half and I didn't take any more pictures, but we did look in on them from time to time. They were ugly, bald prehistoric looking things and when their pin feathers started coming in I am pretty sure they were among the ugliest things on the planet. Ugly or not, it's truly amazing how fast they grow. Today, there were only two left, and they looked like this:

I think my wife got some good "in between" shots, but there weren't any on my camera. Because I care about you all deeply and I don't want you to miss out, here is an artist's rendition of what they looked like at about two weeks:

*that's when you open your big mouth and nothing of any consequence comes out of it, so you just keep it that way until someone shoves food in it.