You’ve Got The Wrong Number

I snapped last night. It was almost 10 pm, and this was the third telephone call interrupting the Gonzaga game.

Me: “Look, I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong number. I’m not your grandson. You need to stop calling this number. It’s late.”

Old lady (kind, but obviously senile): “Well, do you have his number? How do I get the right number?”

Me (resisting the urge to suggest she use the Internet): “I don’t know your grandson’s phone number. Call directory assistance. Just don’t call this number any more. Ok? Good luck.”

And I hung up at that point. This was probably about the seventh time in four days this lady has called me, introducing herself as “Grandma” and not believing me when I tell her that I’m not her grandson. We’ve gone through this exchange seven times. I was polite and courteous the first six calls, but last night was the breaking point.

Hopefully she’s moved onto the next name in the phone book. Still, I feel bad. Maybe I should try and help reunite her with her grandson, using my considerable resources of Internet access and functioning mental faculties. It would certainly look sharp on my good-deed resume. I might actually consider this when she calls back.

It’s a Man!!!

I’m pleased to announce the results of our ultrasound today with this snapshot capturing the baby’s genitalia.

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Clearly, it’s a man. Look at that sniper rifle! I can’t even begin to express my relief right now. And for the record, this is the first of many nude photos of my son that will be taken and invariably pulled out in front of his prom date 18 years from now.

Here’s one other pic with a more tasteful look at little Lando Calrissian.

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There’s no need to schedule a sex change operation after the delivery. We’re having a boy, an heir to the Zillionaire Empire… and I couldn’t be happier. The next step is settling on a name, so please continue sending in your suggestions!

Naming A Future Zillionaire

As you know, my wife is pregnant. And so far, the baby growing inside of her is simply referred to as Cletus… as in, “Cletus the Fetus.” However, that is about to change. We have an ultrasound appointment today, which will hopefully render the sex, thus allowing us to begin the naming process… also known as, “The Impending Four-Month Argument.”

For starters, here are some names I’ve come up with for a girl:

Warrior Princess: It’s powerful, yet feminine.

Actually, that is the only name I’ve come up with for a girl. Hopefully this is as far as the discussion goes. Of course, I’ve got a whole bunch of names lined up for a boy:

Tundra: Truck names, like “Dakota”, have become popular recently, as they are masculine and rugged. Other options along this line: Titan, Ranger, Silverado, and F-150.

Dude: I figure, if he has friends like mine, this is what he’ll respond to anyway.

Thomas Magnum: The first name “Thomas” is classy. The middle name of “Magnum” adds a touch of “ladies man private investigator” to it. Of course, my son would have to grow one helluva mustache to justify such a name. I would hate to put that kind of pressure on a kid.

Cash Money: Think of what a cocky jackass he would grow up to be with a name like this. It might be worth it though to give him the ability to introduce himself with a line like this: “They call me Cash Money. Allow me to show you why.”

Jack McSex: First name Jack, middle name McSex. I figure, if it’s good enough for my Gamertag, it’s certainly good enough for my first-born.

The Centaur, Jr: I don’t know, it might be confusing around the house if we both had the same name. Also, I want my son to create his own path, and not feel obligated to follow in his father’s footsteps. If he decides on his own to become a giant horse’s ass one day, then I will be truly honored.

And of course, my personal favorite:

Lando Calrissian: He’s known throughout the galaxy as the suavest man in space. I can’t imagine a more perfect name. Truthfully, I’m almost not even joking anymore. I’m actually going to seriously lobby for this one. Of course, my wife hates this name, which means we’ll have to compromise on a name like “Bobba Fett” instead.

Anyway, I’ll update everyone with the results as soon as possible. In the meantime, send me your suggestions! Needless to say, it’s going to be very tough to choose from a list like this.

Zillionaires on Parade

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It’s New Years Eve, and Zillionaires across the country are mobilizing to celebrate the occasion. That’s me, fourth from the left. Not pictured: My bow and arrow.

As Zillionaires, I’m sure you all have a drink within easy reach right now. So let us raise our glasses, and toast the coming year, and hope for as much success and happiness as the law will allow.

And thanks to my buddy Hepworth for producing the graphic. As you can see, he specializes in superimposing characters from Greek mythology into wedding photos. If you have a similar need, shoot me an email.

Happy Letdown Day!

Today is my birthday. December 29th. Like every other year, it will be a day spent without singing, fanfare or festivities.

Me: “Hey everyone! Today’s my birthday!”
Family member: “Nice try. We just celebrated your birthday, like, four days ago. Hello?”
Me: “No… that was Jesus’ birthday. You know, Christmas. I know it’s easy to get the two of us confused. My birthday is today!”
Family members (exchanging nervous glances): “Oh, right… well, those gifts we got you were actually meant for Christmas and your birthday. Happy Letdown Day!”

For the record, I am neither redheaded nor a stepchild. I’m just treated as such. By virtue of having a birthday four days after Christmas, each year I am annually shafted, stiffed, or forgotten altogether. People are so busy celebrating Jesus’ birthday, they tend to overlook mine. It’s understandable. He probably deserves more birthday fanfare than I do.

The problem is the scheduling. Believe me, it’s hard sharing the stage with Jesus this time of year. And I’m in the unenviable position of trying to go after Jesus. He knocks ’em dead every show. Nobody wants to take the stage after Him. There’s just no way for me to top His act, and most of the audience has already filed out anyway.

By December 29th, people are simply ready for the holidays to be over. Frankly, I understand the sentiment. I realize that my birthday is really more of an additional holiday pain-in-the-ass than a cause for celebration. After Christmas, nobody wants to shop for gifts. The malls are just as packed with people, but there is half the selection and zero goodwill towards men. They’ve already spent enough time with family. Nobody wants to wrap anything. And everyone is flat-out sick of being festive. Simply put, celebrating my birthday after Christmas gets the same level of enthusiasm from people as if I suggested we order a pizza immediately after Thanksgiving dinner.

Why couldn’t I have been born on February 29th, the day that leap year is observed? At least my birthday would be recognized every four years, instead of every decade or so as it is now. No such luck. Today is my birthday. And the holidays are over. Happy Letdown Day.