My Wife is a Cougar

Sorry to disappoint, she’s not a “cougar” in the traditional sense.

Picture her as a literal cougar, sitting atop a precipice stalking her prey. Crouched, her legs are like springs, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Her eyes dart from side to side, her tail twitches in anticipation. And then… when her prey stumbles momentarily, her eyes widen, claws retract, and she leaps in for the kill…

Her prey? Any funny story I’m attempting to tell at a cocktail party or social gathering.

And just like a real cougar would, my wife will meticulously stalk a funny story from a hidden vantage point. She will wait for me to stumble in my recantation of the events, and then suddenly… she pounces! My funny story is unsuspecting, and puts up limited resistance to the surprise attack. Inevitably, my wife will snap the story’s neck, and haul the carcass up a tree to gorge on its entrails. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

You see, there are stories I enjoy telling in a group setting that my wife has heard a million times before. And whenever I find myself dispensing mirth in front of a new audience, my wife cannot resist gleefully cross-examining my testimony. She hangs on every word, just hoping, salivating, for a mistake that she can joyfully correct in front of a large audience.

Conversely, when my wife begins to tell a story I have heard before, I simply tune out. Although, to be perfectly honest, I generally tune out most of her first-run, original stories as well.

Not my wife though. Once a crowd has shifted their collective attention to me, she dutifully strives to prevent any embellishments in my storytelling. Unsatisfied with her role as the ombudsman of my narrative, she unfailingly decides that my solo act should really morph into a duet. A husband and wife storytelling duet! The irony, is that for many of my stories, my wife wasn’t there to witness the events firsthand to begin with anyway. Yet somehow, she knows the events of that particular night better than I do. And once she forcibly anoints herself the “co-storyteller” of one of my stories, it is only a matter of time before we are arguing with each other in front of our audience.

I look around, surveying the awkward discomfort of our friends. Nobody wants to make eye contact. I realize the story has been mortally wounded. If anything, I wish I had a blunt instrument nearby to put it out of its misery.

Thankfully, as is often the case, I am my own blunt instrument. As there is no way to win a fight with a hungry cougar, the best course of action is to withdraw. Remember to back away slowly and puff out your jacket or other loose clothing to appear bigger in stature. At a minimum, pop your collar and turn your pockets inside out. Never turn your back to the animal! Banging sticks or dinner plates together can also help provide a distraction for your escape. If possible, tossing a plate of hors d’oeuvres (especially baked brie) on the floor may cause the cougar to divert the attack elsewhere. Following these steps will insure you can live to tell another story someday… And sadly, this is how every cocktail party concludes for Mr. and Mrs. Centaur.

Uh oh. Did you hear that? My wife’s ears just perked up at the sound of me typing this post. Her nostrils flare, as she gathers in the scent of her prey. Be forewarned, I guarantee she will soon begin refuting irrelevant details of this post in the comment section below…

The Fart Whisperer

They call me the Fart Whisperer. It is my gift.

I can’t break a wild horse or teach a rowdy dog to behave but I can coax that fart out of you.

Like tuning an old TV with rabbit ears, I will adjust your legs to unkink your intestines. My magic fingers on your abdomen will have you breaking wind like a teenager doing sit-ups in gym class.

I don’t rely on medical devices or over-the-counter fart suppressants. My methods are all-natural. I am the midwife of flatulence.

Just because I work in a respected and professional manner does not mean the farts reciprocate. They scream at me as they rush by. They disgrace themselves as they exit the premises. They are prone to violent outbursts when they are ushered out the back door.

But I am ready for whatever fight they put up. I’ve been doing this for so long, I know and understand each fart’s personality. There is the “bloater.” The “popper.” The “grumpy old man who lives like a hermit in the woods.” I can’t even count the number of times I’ve had to introduce him back into society.

Not all farts are the same, however, and in my career I’ve had the good fortune to grapple with a few choice vapors that tested my every move and instinct. Like all worthy foes, I’ve given them a name and an epitaph, which I share below:

  • Muddy Trumpet and his Big Ass Band – After a long night of partying and po’ boys in New Orleans, this jazzy number came out like a full-on fart orchestra (farchestra, if you will). Leading the band, Muddy Trumpet played a solo on my sphincter like a some kind of proctologist Louie Armstrong. Also, there was a lot of scatting.
  • Turtlehead’s Monster – A fart is a fart until you crap your pants. Turtlehead’s Monster, as I’ve dubbed him, is the turd that doesn’t understand that simple rule. Like a periscope on a submarine, he pokes his head out, assesses the situation, and pulls back to live another day. However, in the process he has literally left all the calling cards of a creature from a bad horror movie. The stench. The trail of slime. The angry mob.
  • The Drum-Major’s Daughter – Sure, she looks so sweet and innocent, but this little ripper can peel the new pink paint off the walls in your nursery room. With the precision of a drum-roll, this fart will have you marching right into a baby-wipe battle.

Now, the only questions are when do I get my TV show and who will play the Fart Whisperer on the silver screen?

The Unnecessary Theater of Ordering Food at a Restaurant

There is a lot of unnecessary theater when ordering food at a restaurant. Recently, I had a waiter who took my table’s order but opted to forgo a notepad or bother to jot anything down. He just nodded approvingly after each request and then walked away. He memorized our order! Needless to say, this display of unwanted showmanship went largely unappreciated.

Similarly, if my accountant were to announce that he had done the math on my tax return entirely in his head, I would be equally nonplussed. While it’s an impressive feat, I would much rather he go ahead and fire up the calculator, sharpen a #2 pencil, generate a paper trail, and do his damnedest to get it right.

From the waiter’s perspective, there’s essentially zero upside to successfully memorizing our order. Why would you put the accuracy of my dinner order in jeopardy? Why even take that unnecessary risk? Who is this guy? Did our waiter recently abandon the cutthroat lifestyle of a riverboat gambler to wait tables at an Olive Garden?

Here’s the waiter’s job, in a nutshell: Relay the message of what I want for dinner to the kitchen staff. When they have prepared my meal, transport it safely from the kitchen to my table. No grandstanding is needed. You don’t need to dazzle me with your short-term memory skills, try to guess my weight or saw my date in half. Simply put, you don’t need to voluntarily make your job more difficult. Leave that to me.

Essentially, the only thing I want a waiter to memorize are the daily specials and what beers are currently on tap. Anything beyond that is excessive theatrics. And frankly, there’s just no room for showboating when it comes to bringing me my dinner.

Extreme Food Shows Too Extreme

The “extreme food show” genre has taken over the cable television market. In fact, it seems in just a few short months, the crowded lineup has forced the shows to become more and more extreme as they compete for viewers. I swear I was watching one the other day and the host was in a restaurant that only served penis. Yes, one ingredient, but, believe me, the menu was pages long. Not only did they cook it a bunch of different ways, you could eat the penis of a bunch of different animals. This example illustrates my point. These extreme food shows are too extreme.

I just have to ask. What’s next? What can top that? I wouldn’t be suprised if I turn on the tv next week and see some extreme food show host describing his meal as such:

“Most people eat the meat and the organs of the chicken. You’ve seen some other extreme show food hosts eat chicken feet or brain. That’s nothing. I’m here at a place that makes a dish solely out of chicken feather mitochondria.”

Or maybe…

“Oh my gosh! This bottlenose dolphin-fart soup has a unique biscuit and salt-water aroma. I have to taste it!”

That guy who travels to different countries will, no doubt, utter these words one day:

“The local cuisine here is designed to utilize the whole animal. In this case, the bat. Once a year, the townspeople gather to prepare the special meal before the hunt. I’m here, at the ceremonial feast where we are enjoying the first course… bat sonar gland jerky.”

So listen up Guy Fieri! I have some suggestions. Go find a diner, drive-in, or dive that will serve me:

  1. Roasted Stalagmite Cave-Mold Spores
  2. Toasted Bacteria Spine
  3. Eagle-eyelid Marmalade
  4. Scab Butter
  5. Brain-fluid Lemonade

Fantasy Made a Fan of Me

There’s a good reason I haven’t been posting on this blog. For the last 4 months, I’ve been checking my fantasy football stats, changing my lineup, and watching ungodly amounts of football on TV. There is a game on Thursday, sometimes Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. It’s perfect because I didn’t want to have a life anyway.

It’s like it’s 1990 and I’m collecting baseball cards again. Instead of Topps, Donruss, and Upper Deck, I’m on CBS Sportsline, ESPN, and Yahoo reading up on every player no matter if they are a starter or just a worthless common. I’m always scouting the next flyer I need to grab off the waiver wire. I hated football growing up as a kid (they called me a “skater fag”), but now I can tell you who every player is on every team. Living in New York, I’ve got the Super Bowl champion Giants and Brett Favre in my backyard now. I wish I had his rookie card!

This year, I got roped into being the commissioner of our fantasy football league and I took my duties very seriously. And now that the season is over, I am going the extra mile. I’ve once again enlisted the musical genius of Jon Solo (the Virtual Solos, in FF lingo) to lay down a hot beat so we could bust the ultimate fantasy football rap. Hut hut hike!

Download Fantasy Made a Fan of Me

Big shout out to all the dudes in the Bloody Sunday League!

Hollywood, CheesyPoofs, The Seachickens, J Mac Attack, Juicy Ju-Boys, U.S. Kids, Hong Kong Phoey, Zack Attack, Dyks on Byks, Colt 45’s!

Next year’s draft is right around the corner!

Commish and Virtual Solos over and out.