After much deliberation and several near-marriage-ending fights, it's done. My wife and I have made an offer on a home.
My wife is thrilled about having a place to raise our family and all the equity we'll be having (or making, or whatever verb you do to equity). I'm just glad I don't have to go house hunting anymore. I was really bad at it.
It's hard to look at an empty house and imagine it as the home you would turn it into. You find yourself thinking things like “yeah, that's a nice banister, but what would it look like with my underwear drying on it?”
Fortunately you have a realtor with you at all times, so these trains of thought never lead to anything that would end up in the papers.
I don't think house shopping should be this way. With other large purchases, such as a car, you're allowed to try doing what you will be doing with the car. You drive it.
I don't think a 20 minute tour, 17 of those minutes being spent talking about school districts, is enough time to know if you will actually like living in a place. I think I should be able to move in for a few days. Give the place a bit of a test-live. It makes sense.
Of course I think I should be allowed to lick any cake I'm considering buying.
This is because I'm not the kind of person who makes life decisions quickly. I dated my wife for two years before we got married. It took me months to decide which college I wanted to go to. But I decided which building I'm going to spend the majority of my life in less than an hour because some one else was looking at it and because my realtor said I could have pie.
I'm too scared to poop now.
There are just too many unknowns.
Things I don't know about this house that scare me:
Is it haunted?
The house is going inspected for structural integrity, various pests and mold. It will not be checked for ghosts. Let me tell you something, if I wake up to get a drink and find myself face to face with the spectral remains of a young lady, hacked to pieces on her wedding night, I'm not going to be too concerned with mold.
What birds hang out in the back yard?
And at what times? While, I love doves and quail visiting in the evenings, I am not a fan of squawking, pooping alarm clocks (this is why I don't have kids). I'm also concerned I don't know the neighborhood outlook on BB guns.
How does it smell in the rain?
We've all been in a house at one point that smells a bit like an old person on soggy days? I don't want to be the house in the neighborhood that everyone checks the forecast before they visit.
Is it haunted?
I'm serious, it really bothers me that I don't know this. If this house is on a Native burial ground, I'm going to be so pissed.
How are the neighbors?
Are the nice? Are they douche bags? Are they robots? Are they robotic douche bags? I know none of these things. The only living being in the area that I've actually met was someones dog who appeared out of no where to smell my wife (I can't blame him, she smells excellent).
I tried Googling all these things, but all the links were to Wikipedia (which I still don't trust ever since the Golden Girls incident). I guess I'll just have to suck it up though. Sometimes a man has to Kirk it up and live where he hasn't lived before. I think I can do this. I think I can make it work.
Unless there are ghosts. Then I will cross those streams so fast, it'll make your head spin.
Steve Shinney is so concerned because his house was built in the 60s. Do you have any idea how many people can die in a house in almost 50 years. A lot, that's how many. Comments and recommendations of a good paranormal investigator are welcome.
The strange this is, I kinda miss the little guy
If you ever have to look down to remind yourself that you haven't been stabbed in the stomach, your day is off to a bad start.
This was the situation I found myself in the other day. I even left work early so I could be miserable in only one way at a time.
I took a shower, hot water normally eases whatever pain I'm feeling, but this time it just made it a wetter kind of pain.
I considered putting clothes on for a minute, but the thought of bending down to pick them up from their place on the floor made my stomach cry out in anguish.
And so I laid there, bare-bum naked, waiting for the alien larvae to burst from my stomach and end my pain forever.
It really sucks, when all you want in the world is just to curl up into the fetal position and cry, but said curling really really hurts.
Finally I decided that that searing pain in my stomach might be something I should talk to a medical professional about.
I'd been manly for almost 9 hours. I'd filled my quota.
My lovely wife drove me to the nearest insta-care facility where I was over whelmed by how misinforming that name was. There was nothing insta about the care I received.
What they should call it is an insta-pay or an insta-wait or an insta-fill out these forms, because those are the only things I did within the first 20 minutes.
Not that I mind. There were plenty of other people there in need of care at any speed. Some of whom were in more pain than I, and other who were just better at selling it.
As I sat there I tried to distract myself by reading a Newsweek the humor columnist in me is required to say was from the Regan era but was really from March.
I had to distract myself because now the pain was so pain that I wanted to puke. It was like someone had put a donkey in my stomach and it was trying to kick its way out.
As a former janitor, I've found that I have secret agent-like awareness in potentially dangerous situations. Only instead of always knowing how to escape and constantly figuring out how to disable any one in the room who may be a threat, whenever I feel sick I'm constantly scanning the room for the best way to blow chunks so that no one has to clean it up.
Ok, it's 4 and one half steps to the garbage can in the corner, but if that kid playing with the blocks stands up, I won't be able to hurdle him, so I'll go left instead, where it just five and one third steps to the large, potted plant.
It's not as cool I know, but I would argue that it's just as heroic.
Finally I got to see the doctor. By which I of course mean a nurse.
She was very nice though, and did a good job taking my vitals and gathering some basic information. Then she took me to an small room, gave me a paper dress, told me to strip to the waist and that the doctor would be with me shortly.
When I got to see a doctor. He listened to my stomach with a stethoscope – which really makes me think they just really like to use those things for everything they can – and poked my belly like I was a beloved mascot for a bake goods corporation.
I don't know how effective the listening was, unless he actually heard something burst, but the poking was very effective in making it very clear that I was really in pain.
Apparently stethoscopes and fingers were the whole extant of medical equipment this particular insta-care had at their disposal, because that was all they did. The doctor said that he couldn't rule out appendicitis and that I should probably get to emergency room.
I was about to say that wouldn't be necessary but he poked me again in the stomach and I saw the prudence of listening to a medical professionals advice.
So my wife helped me stagger to the car and drove me to the hospital. The insta-care gave us very good directions that helped us find the hospital with no problem. They were not however as clear on how to get to the actual emergency room. We had to drive around the whole building twice, cross a bridge guarded by a troll and speak the elvish word for friend before we were finally allowed to enter.
The emergency room was another place that didn't meet the expectations I had from it's name. I don't know it it was because people had planned their emergencies better than I had or if it was always this way but it didn't look to me any busier or more stressed than a normal doctors office.
There were even toys for kids to play with. In my mind the only thing kids had to play with and the emergency room were severed fingers they found on the floor.
So I calmly wrote my name on a sheet of paper and sat down to patiently wait for the receptionist or God to call my name. Whoever spoke up first.
The first medical professional that I dealt with was a male nurse. He really struck me as more of an gatherer of information than a healer of wounds. He asked me a lot of questions about my past medical history, any similar trips to the hospital, how I had paid for those and how I was planning on paying for this one.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, in a voice that made it pretty clear that whatever my problem was, it had better be pretty good because he had probably seen people die already today.
I tried to come up with the most manly way to explain the situation but all I could up with was, “My tummy hurts.”
He then took my vitals which consisted of taking my blood pressure, checking my temperature and sticking a thing on my figure for some reason. I think I had something to do with oxygen.
This was the first of many vitals takings during my time at the hospital. That seems to be how doctors and nurses greet people. They say their name and the stick their hand out, but when you go to shake it, BOOM, they've slapped that cuff on you and are squeezing for all they're worth.
The next person I saw was an EMT. The EMT's part in this whole process was basically to stick a big, all purpose needle in me that later nurses and doctors could use to put in and take out various fluids.
I wasn't too worried when he explained this. I've given blood plenty of times, but this time it was different. Apparently if you've got a donkey in your stomach, needles just provoke him.
In the EMT's words, I suddenly lost a lot of color. This is a big deal for me because I don't have a lot of color to go around. I can't afford to lose any.
At that exact moment, however, I had bigger concerns than the current state of my complexion. The exact location of my blood, and my sudden need to fall down for example.
The EMT had me lay down and hooked me up to an IV to help me regain some fluids. I instantly fell in love with this new method of taking in fluids. I think the only way it could be more effective would be if they pumped the water directly into my bladder.
In between trips to get rid of some of the IV solution, they gave me a CAT scan. They stuck my lower half into the large machine that reminded me of a really high tech, but really crappy water slide.
After dipping me a couple times, the thing whirred and beeped for a bit and delivered it verdict that I was perfectly fine.
I think it was hoping they would send me home and I would die and then the robot uprising could take place.
No such luck this day Mr. Roboto. The technician was able to catch on the ruse, run the test again and sure enough, my appendix had taken the commuter rail all the way to inflamedville.
I considered this a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it pretty lucky when you think about it to have the one organ that craps out early be on I totally don't use. On the other hand, I always considered my appendix to be one of my finer features.
The surgeon came a explained what appendicitis was and would happen during the operation. He was very personable and dig a good job explaining things, but really all I heard from him was “You're in a lot a pain right now.”
I do remember that he spent a lot of time going over what would happen in the “worst case scenario.”
“Mr. Shinney, I want you to be fully aware that, 'worse case scenario' you could be full of giant spider eggs. It's not very common. Only one person out of 500 has it. I just think you should know.”
I understand the importance of making sure the patient has all the information, but I think he should also give equal opportunity to the “best case.”
“Mr. Shinney I think you should also be aware that when we open you up, there's a 4 and one half percent chance all this pain was cause by a small golden monkey. If that's the case you'll get to keep the monkey.”
He also gave me a paper to sign saying that he had explained all the options available to me. This was pretty easy for him. Apparently my options were I could let him poke around in my stomach with a camera, a pair of scissors and a stapler, or I could go home and die a slow and painful death.
On the TV in my little room, the Yankees had just beaten the Red Sox, so I figured I had something to live for, so I went with the first one.
We had to wait about an hour for an operating room to be available. It was a quite time of introspection. I looked back on my life, on what I had done and what I still hoped to do. I prayed for comfort and strength. I told my wife I loved her.
I made up my mind who I would haunt if the doctor sneezed.
When they came in to tell me the room was ready for me I was a little bit sad to say goodbye to my little corner of the emergency room. It had a bed, a TV and a bathroom all within 20 feet of each other. It was nicer than many apartments I've lived in.
I was also sad because everyone in the emergency room was really nice to me. I'd like to think that it was because of my charming personality and my up-beat attitude.
It truth I think it was just because I didn't bleed or barf on any of them.
They helped me onto one of those hospital beds on wheels that are officially called gurneys but when you're strapped into one, you just think of it as a “transport to a scary place.” The wheeled me into the operating room where I was introduced to my anesthesiologist and much more importantly, to my anesthesia.
I don't remember any of what happened next. Considering that it involved people cutting, probing and shaving all different parts of my body, I would say this was probably a good thing.
Even with all the kindnesses I was shown during my stay in the hospital, including saving my life, the one I was most grateful for was that they waited until I was completely under to lift my gown and expose my junk to anything medical.
I think this is the way it should always be.
During the next hour or so, my appendix was removed. I don't know what else happened in that time. I'm still hoping they did some sort of experimental treatment that will someday result in my being able to fly, shoot lasers out of my eyes or at least figure out my gas mileage in my head, but so far, no luck.
After I was all sew, taped and stapled back together, I was wheeled into the room in which I was to recover. I'm normally not very interested in interior decorating, but for some reason, I found myself very impressed with the curtains.
I was moved into a less movable – and therefore less scary – bed and hooked up to multitude of machines, none of which were explained to me and told to have a good night. On the way out the nurse said offhandedly “Oh, if you need it, there's a urinal next to your bed.”
This was the meanest thing to happen to me during my stay, and that includes all the poking.
Now I know that the average woman does not spend a lot of time in the men's room. This is kind of the idea behind the whole system. But really women, it is very important that you know what is and what is not a urinal.
Because if you tell a heavily drugged, post-op patient that there is a urinal beside his bed, in his current state of mind he will assume there is a real, porcelain-on-the-wall urinal somewhere to his left. When he wakes up and finds that there's nothing but a pee-bottle, he's gonna be more than a little disappointed.
This pee-in-a-bottle system is so that the nurses can keep track of how much you're producing, and so that the rest of us can be glad we're not nurses.
At first I was glad to have the bottle. I was in no mood to stand up and go anywhere to go. The thought of being able to pee as I was struck me as ultimate luxury.
The problem was that ever since I was four years old, I've been practice NOT peeing while in bed. Over the years, I've gotten really good at it.
This expertise came back to haunt me as I was unable to fill the bottle while lying down and I had to stand up, like a common slob, and do things the old fashioned way.
But as soon as I was able to stand and do my deed, for the first time in my life I experienced peeing after having a catheter recently removed.
I'm not going to bore/disgust you with the details. I'll just say it felt like I had a bad sunburn on the inside and leave it at that.
Bodily functions aside, my first night was a long dark and scary one. I was still in a lot of pain, under the influence of some pretty heavy duty chemicals and one of machines I was plugged into started beeping.
I didn't know what the beeping meant or what caused it, but I did know that whenever you go to a hospital, they hook you up to at least one machine so important that if the plug gets pulled out, you get three warning beeps and then you die.
Fortunately, my beeps were from some other machine.
The rest of my time in the hospital was spend laying in bed, watching TV and drinking juice. If it weren't for the butt-clenching pain and the huge bills, it would have been the best vacation I've had in a long time.
So that's my big medical story. It's not that big of a deal I know. Plenty of people have had worse than me. And yes, I do include all mothers in that group.
I don't know how painful child birth is. All I know is I'm going to wait until I pass a kidney stone while on fire before I try to compare it with anything I've gone through.
I don't want to go back to the hospital.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is now minus one minor organ. He's recovering well but will probably never be able to help you move in the future. He is sorry for the inconvenience.
Sorry this was so long in coming, expect a return to regular posting.
This was the situation I found myself in the other day. I even left work early so I could be miserable in only one way at a time.
I took a shower, hot water normally eases whatever pain I'm feeling, but this time it just made it a wetter kind of pain.
I considered putting clothes on for a minute, but the thought of bending down to pick them up from their place on the floor made my stomach cry out in anguish.
And so I laid there, bare-bum naked, waiting for the alien larvae to burst from my stomach and end my pain forever.
It really sucks, when all you want in the world is just to curl up into the fetal position and cry, but said curling really really hurts.
Finally I decided that that searing pain in my stomach might be something I should talk to a medical professional about.
I'd been manly for almost 9 hours. I'd filled my quota.
My lovely wife drove me to the nearest insta-care facility where I was over whelmed by how misinforming that name was. There was nothing insta about the care I received.
What they should call it is an insta-pay or an insta-wait or an insta-fill out these forms, because those are the only things I did within the first 20 minutes.
Not that I mind. There were plenty of other people there in need of care at any speed. Some of whom were in more pain than I, and other who were just better at selling it.
As I sat there I tried to distract myself by reading a Newsweek the humor columnist in me is required to say was from the Regan era but was really from March.
I had to distract myself because now the pain was so pain that I wanted to puke. It was like someone had put a donkey in my stomach and it was trying to kick its way out.
As a former janitor, I've found that I have secret agent-like awareness in potentially dangerous situations. Only instead of always knowing how to escape and constantly figuring out how to disable any one in the room who may be a threat, whenever I feel sick I'm constantly scanning the room for the best way to blow chunks so that no one has to clean it up.
Ok, it's 4 and one half steps to the garbage can in the corner, but if that kid playing with the blocks stands up, I won't be able to hurdle him, so I'll go left instead, where it just five and one third steps to the large, potted plant.
It's not as cool I know, but I would argue that it's just as heroic.
Finally I got to see the doctor. By which I of course mean a nurse.
She was very nice though, and did a good job taking my vitals and gathering some basic information. Then she took me to an small room, gave me a paper dress, told me to strip to the waist and that the doctor would be with me shortly.
When I got to see a doctor. He listened to my stomach with a stethoscope – which really makes me think they just really like to use those things for everything they can – and poked my belly like I was a beloved mascot for a bake goods corporation.
I don't know how effective the listening was, unless he actually heard something burst, but the poking was very effective in making it very clear that I was really in pain.
Apparently stethoscopes and fingers were the whole extant of medical equipment this particular insta-care had at their disposal, because that was all they did. The doctor said that he couldn't rule out appendicitis and that I should probably get to emergency room.
I was about to say that wouldn't be necessary but he poked me again in the stomach and I saw the prudence of listening to a medical professionals advice.
So my wife helped me stagger to the car and drove me to the hospital. The insta-care gave us very good directions that helped us find the hospital with no problem. They were not however as clear on how to get to the actual emergency room. We had to drive around the whole building twice, cross a bridge guarded by a troll and speak the elvish word for friend before we were finally allowed to enter.
The emergency room was another place that didn't meet the expectations I had from it's name. I don't know it it was because people had planned their emergencies better than I had or if it was always this way but it didn't look to me any busier or more stressed than a normal doctors office.
There were even toys for kids to play with. In my mind the only thing kids had to play with and the emergency room were severed fingers they found on the floor.
So I calmly wrote my name on a sheet of paper and sat down to patiently wait for the receptionist or God to call my name. Whoever spoke up first.
The first medical professional that I dealt with was a male nurse. He really struck me as more of an gatherer of information than a healer of wounds. He asked me a lot of questions about my past medical history, any similar trips to the hospital, how I had paid for those and how I was planning on paying for this one.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, in a voice that made it pretty clear that whatever my problem was, it had better be pretty good because he had probably seen people die already today.
I tried to come up with the most manly way to explain the situation but all I could up with was, “My tummy hurts.”
He then took my vitals which consisted of taking my blood pressure, checking my temperature and sticking a thing on my figure for some reason. I think I had something to do with oxygen.
This was the first of many vitals takings during my time at the hospital. That seems to be how doctors and nurses greet people. They say their name and the stick their hand out, but when you go to shake it, BOOM, they've slapped that cuff on you and are squeezing for all they're worth.
The next person I saw was an EMT. The EMT's part in this whole process was basically to stick a big, all purpose needle in me that later nurses and doctors could use to put in and take out various fluids.
I wasn't too worried when he explained this. I've given blood plenty of times, but this time it was different. Apparently if you've got a donkey in your stomach, needles just provoke him.
In the EMT's words, I suddenly lost a lot of color. This is a big deal for me because I don't have a lot of color to go around. I can't afford to lose any.
At that exact moment, however, I had bigger concerns than the current state of my complexion. The exact location of my blood, and my sudden need to fall down for example.
The EMT had me lay down and hooked me up to an IV to help me regain some fluids. I instantly fell in love with this new method of taking in fluids. I think the only way it could be more effective would be if they pumped the water directly into my bladder.
In between trips to get rid of some of the IV solution, they gave me a CAT scan. They stuck my lower half into the large machine that reminded me of a really high tech, but really crappy water slide.
After dipping me a couple times, the thing whirred and beeped for a bit and delivered it verdict that I was perfectly fine.
I think it was hoping they would send me home and I would die and then the robot uprising could take place.
No such luck this day Mr. Roboto. The technician was able to catch on the ruse, run the test again and sure enough, my appendix had taken the commuter rail all the way to inflamedville.
I considered this a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it pretty lucky when you think about it to have the one organ that craps out early be on I totally don't use. On the other hand, I always considered my appendix to be one of my finer features.
The surgeon came a explained what appendicitis was and would happen during the operation. He was very personable and dig a good job explaining things, but really all I heard from him was “You're in a lot a pain right now.”
I do remember that he spent a lot of time going over what would happen in the “worst case scenario.”
“Mr. Shinney, I want you to be fully aware that, 'worse case scenario' you could be full of giant spider eggs. It's not very common. Only one person out of 500 has it. I just think you should know.”
I understand the importance of making sure the patient has all the information, but I think he should also give equal opportunity to the “best case.”
“Mr. Shinney I think you should also be aware that when we open you up, there's a 4 and one half percent chance all this pain was cause by a small golden monkey. If that's the case you'll get to keep the monkey.”
He also gave me a paper to sign saying that he had explained all the options available to me. This was pretty easy for him. Apparently my options were I could let him poke around in my stomach with a camera, a pair of scissors and a stapler, or I could go home and die a slow and painful death.
On the TV in my little room, the Yankees had just beaten the Red Sox, so I figured I had something to live for, so I went with the first one.
We had to wait about an hour for an operating room to be available. It was a quite time of introspection. I looked back on my life, on what I had done and what I still hoped to do. I prayed for comfort and strength. I told my wife I loved her.
I made up my mind who I would haunt if the doctor sneezed.
When they came in to tell me the room was ready for me I was a little bit sad to say goodbye to my little corner of the emergency room. It had a bed, a TV and a bathroom all within 20 feet of each other. It was nicer than many apartments I've lived in.
I was also sad because everyone in the emergency room was really nice to me. I'd like to think that it was because of my charming personality and my up-beat attitude.
It truth I think it was just because I didn't bleed or barf on any of them.
They helped me onto one of those hospital beds on wheels that are officially called gurneys but when you're strapped into one, you just think of it as a “transport to a scary place.” The wheeled me into the operating room where I was introduced to my anesthesiologist and much more importantly, to my anesthesia.
I don't remember any of what happened next. Considering that it involved people cutting, probing and shaving all different parts of my body, I would say this was probably a good thing.
Even with all the kindnesses I was shown during my stay in the hospital, including saving my life, the one I was most grateful for was that they waited until I was completely under to lift my gown and expose my junk to anything medical.
I think this is the way it should always be.
During the next hour or so, my appendix was removed. I don't know what else happened in that time. I'm still hoping they did some sort of experimental treatment that will someday result in my being able to fly, shoot lasers out of my eyes or at least figure out my gas mileage in my head, but so far, no luck.
After I was all sew, taped and stapled back together, I was wheeled into the room in which I was to recover. I'm normally not very interested in interior decorating, but for some reason, I found myself very impressed with the curtains.
I was moved into a less movable – and therefore less scary – bed and hooked up to multitude of machines, none of which were explained to me and told to have a good night. On the way out the nurse said offhandedly “Oh, if you need it, there's a urinal next to your bed.”
This was the meanest thing to happen to me during my stay, and that includes all the poking.
Now I know that the average woman does not spend a lot of time in the men's room. This is kind of the idea behind the whole system. But really women, it is very important that you know what is and what is not a urinal.
Because if you tell a heavily drugged, post-op patient that there is a urinal beside his bed, in his current state of mind he will assume there is a real, porcelain-on-the-wall urinal somewhere to his left. When he wakes up and finds that there's nothing but a pee-bottle, he's gonna be more than a little disappointed.
This pee-in-a-bottle system is so that the nurses can keep track of how much you're producing, and so that the rest of us can be glad we're not nurses.
At first I was glad to have the bottle. I was in no mood to stand up and go anywhere to go. The thought of being able to pee as I was struck me as ultimate luxury.
The problem was that ever since I was four years old, I've been practice NOT peeing while in bed. Over the years, I've gotten really good at it.
This expertise came back to haunt me as I was unable to fill the bottle while lying down and I had to stand up, like a common slob, and do things the old fashioned way.
But as soon as I was able to stand and do my deed, for the first time in my life I experienced peeing after having a catheter recently removed.
I'm not going to bore/disgust you with the details. I'll just say it felt like I had a bad sunburn on the inside and leave it at that.
Bodily functions aside, my first night was a long dark and scary one. I was still in a lot of pain, under the influence of some pretty heavy duty chemicals and one of machines I was plugged into started beeping.
I didn't know what the beeping meant or what caused it, but I did know that whenever you go to a hospital, they hook you up to at least one machine so important that if the plug gets pulled out, you get three warning beeps and then you die.
Fortunately, my beeps were from some other machine.
The rest of my time in the hospital was spend laying in bed, watching TV and drinking juice. If it weren't for the butt-clenching pain and the huge bills, it would have been the best vacation I've had in a long time.
So that's my big medical story. It's not that big of a deal I know. Plenty of people have had worse than me. And yes, I do include all mothers in that group.
I don't know how painful child birth is. All I know is I'm going to wait until I pass a kidney stone while on fire before I try to compare it with anything I've gone through.
I don't want to go back to the hospital.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is now minus one minor organ. He's recovering well but will probably never be able to help you move in the future. He is sorry for the inconvenience.
Sorry this was so long in coming, expect a return to regular posting.
Patients are a virtue
I really wanted to have something up hear weeks ago. This time last week I was in the hospital and I'm still working on a column about that experience. It'll be up as soon as it's done and I'm pleased with it.
No one invited me to this or any other parties
Trying some very different things in this piece. Would appreciate any feedback.
Last week we Americans, with our red blood, blue jeans and whitey tighties, celebrated our freedom: Freedom not just from obsessive dictators but from commercials for feminine hygiene products during major sporting events.
Yes, now days we Yankees are freer than a stomach ache on Halloween, but it wasn't always the case. There was a time when Americans were subject to foreign rule. Not just any foreign rule, but the oppressive and evil foreign rule of the British who, at the time, were about as evil as Shredder from the Ninja Turtles..
It was all a big misunderstanding. The British (who invented wedgies by the way) were convinced they owned the colonies simply because they had made them.
As a result of this British (who smelled like wet cow) tyranny, the Americans were not allowed to go swimming for at least 45 minutes after eating.
But in these darks days of wet socks and stale popcorn there were, however, a brave few who dared to dream. Dream of a future where their children were free to take a penny, even if they had no intention of ever leaving a penny.
These men were upset at the injustices they suffered at the hands of the British (who were also in league with Gargemel from the Smurfs). They were upset they a 10 pm curfew. They were upset they couldn't make a right turn at a red light. But mostly they were upset about taxes.
The British (who hated puppies) were big fans of taxes. The put ridiculous taxes on everything. Sugar was taxed. Toilet paper was taxed. There was a tax on wig powder. You know that little plastic table-looking thing that comes in a box of pizza? They had a tax on those. Even the thirteenth donut in a baker's dozen was taxed.
Basically the British (who always double dipped in the salsa) were a bunch of taxing douche bags.
Now the Americans wanted to rebel. The problem was British (who cheated at Clue) Army had like two million soldiers, some of which may have been vampires.
These soldiers had two jobs in America, give speeding tickets to people just going two miles over the limit and make sure none of the Americans got to drink any of the special British (who pretty much sucked at volleyball) tea, which was kept on a boat.
So the colonists, burning to feel the freedom of Taco Tuesday, took the tea and dumped into the Boston Harbor. Of course, those of us who can finish the mazes on the back our cereal boxes (which the colonists couldn't because of the high maze tax) realize that putting tea in water is pretty much the recipe for tea.
And so these brave revolutionaries turned American's biggest shipping center into the world's largest cup of Earl Gray, which sounds a lot more like a prank that an act of total defiance.
At first the British (who pooped on babies) were confused by this move. Their first reaction was to enforce a tax on dressing up like an Indian and on doing things they didn't understand.
Before long though, the British (who hated your Grandma) couldn't resist a practically endless supply of tea. Soon then all came in for a drink.
That was when the colonists shot them.
Unfortunately they used too loud of a gun and the shot was heard all the way around the world. This lead to the American Revolutionary War which was pretty much the coolest war until the invention of death rays because it consisted of the Americans beating the British (who had no nads) so bad that they didn't set foot in America again until the War of 1812 by which time they had invented evil robots spies.
Fortunately, by then Andrew Jackson discover a ring of power, so we were OK.
So I hoped you enjoyed your Independence Day. But we should remember these brave founders for freedom all year long.
In conclusion, fireworks stands should be open all year.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a serious historian who never makes up facts. Ever. Not even if you asked him to. You can try to talk him into it in the comments section.
Last week we Americans, with our red blood, blue jeans and whitey tighties, celebrated our freedom: Freedom not just from obsessive dictators but from commercials for feminine hygiene products during major sporting events.
Yes, now days we Yankees are freer than a stomach ache on Halloween, but it wasn't always the case. There was a time when Americans were subject to foreign rule. Not just any foreign rule, but the oppressive and evil foreign rule of the British who, at the time, were about as evil as Shredder from the Ninja Turtles..
It was all a big misunderstanding. The British (who invented wedgies by the way) were convinced they owned the colonies simply because they had made them.
As a result of this British (who smelled like wet cow) tyranny, the Americans were not allowed to go swimming for at least 45 minutes after eating.
But in these darks days of wet socks and stale popcorn there were, however, a brave few who dared to dream. Dream of a future where their children were free to take a penny, even if they had no intention of ever leaving a penny.
These men were upset at the injustices they suffered at the hands of the British (who were also in league with Gargemel from the Smurfs). They were upset they a 10 pm curfew. They were upset they couldn't make a right turn at a red light. But mostly they were upset about taxes.
The British (who hated puppies) were big fans of taxes. The put ridiculous taxes on everything. Sugar was taxed. Toilet paper was taxed. There was a tax on wig powder. You know that little plastic table-looking thing that comes in a box of pizza? They had a tax on those. Even the thirteenth donut in a baker's dozen was taxed.
Basically the British (who always double dipped in the salsa) were a bunch of taxing douche bags.
Now the Americans wanted to rebel. The problem was British (who cheated at Clue) Army had like two million soldiers, some of which may have been vampires.
These soldiers had two jobs in America, give speeding tickets to people just going two miles over the limit and make sure none of the Americans got to drink any of the special British (who pretty much sucked at volleyball) tea, which was kept on a boat.
So the colonists, burning to feel the freedom of Taco Tuesday, took the tea and dumped into the Boston Harbor. Of course, those of us who can finish the mazes on the back our cereal boxes (which the colonists couldn't because of the high maze tax) realize that putting tea in water is pretty much the recipe for tea.
And so these brave revolutionaries turned American's biggest shipping center into the world's largest cup of Earl Gray, which sounds a lot more like a prank that an act of total defiance.
At first the British (who pooped on babies) were confused by this move. Their first reaction was to enforce a tax on dressing up like an Indian and on doing things they didn't understand.
Before long though, the British (who hated your Grandma) couldn't resist a practically endless supply of tea. Soon then all came in for a drink.
That was when the colonists shot them.
Unfortunately they used too loud of a gun and the shot was heard all the way around the world. This lead to the American Revolutionary War which was pretty much the coolest war until the invention of death rays because it consisted of the Americans beating the British (who had no nads) so bad that they didn't set foot in America again until the War of 1812 by which time they had invented evil robots spies.
Fortunately, by then Andrew Jackson discover a ring of power, so we were OK.
So I hoped you enjoyed your Independence Day. But we should remember these brave founders for freedom all year long.
In conclusion, fireworks stands should be open all year.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a serious historian who never makes up facts. Ever. Not even if you asked him to. You can try to talk him into it in the comments section.
Bus Bus Goose
I started riding the bus long before it became cool to do so.
Nowadays, I find myself again not so cool. With gas prices raising faster than ninja at the grocery store, everyone seems to be taking public transportation these days.
Not me, I've been doing it for month, back when I was the only one of the bus and I did just for the satisfaction of looking down on hippies with a “greener than thou” look on my face.
Now the bus is become more and more crowded and every morning, I find myself reliving the nightmare of grade-school Steve, trying to find a seat before the scary bus driver hurls the bus towards the next stop.
It's a horrific labyrinth of people I don't want to sit be: too fat, too scary, too stinky, too female and it's really too much stress for me that early in the morning so I am putting my foot down. I was hear first, so of you are gonna hafta go.
Its for the good of everyone.
Or at least me.
The following people should not be allowed to ride the bus ever.
Bikers.
I'm not talking about the kind of bikers who peddle from their home and the bus stop. Those people are fine so long as then don't stand in front of me in those thing they have the gall to call shorts.
Trust me on this. I wear shorts more than any adult should. I'm almost an expert on shorts. If your pants are so tight your butt hair pokes through, those aren't shorts.
I'm talking about the guys who are so in to their bikes that that
The is nothing scarier than an angry biker. And there's not angrier than a biker forced to used public transportation. So I'm pretty sure that there's nothing scarier than a biker on the bus.
Maybe a clown with a gun that shoots rattlesnakes.
But there would have to be – like – four of them.
Old women who want to talk.
I don't know if they can't read, can't work an iPod or have just been around so long that they've already read and listened to anything but if you put a woman over the age of 70 on some sort of public transportation, and suddenly she really wants to talk with any random stranger who happens to be me.
And the cheaper the form of transportation, the crazier the woman becomes.
On a plane, she wants to talk about her grandkids, which is boring.
On a train, she wants to talk about her cats, which is more boring.
On the bus, she just wants to talk about herself, which is the most boring thing ever, and usually pretty gross because she has all kinds of health problems that she has to show me, some of which kind of make me throw up a little in my mouth.
The guy with the shovel.
I was on the bus a few weeks ago and some dude gets on with a shovel.
He didn't look like a farmer, an archaeologist or Smokey the Bear or anyone else who would have a good reason to have a shovel with them. I tried to come up with a situation that would require digging and an easy, yet anonymous way to get to and from the digging but all I could come up with were shallow graves and
Apparently I wasn't one freaking out about this guy. The biker on the bus shot me one of those “This guy is going to make on of us into ice cream topping,” looks and moved further back in the bus.
Attractive people.
Good looking people have no business being on the bus. You guys make the rest of us feel bad.
Finally, Dark Jedi.
I don't have any good reason. I just hate them so much.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a big fan of planes, trains and automobiles. Not the movie, he just like things that go vroooooooooom. Drop him a line below.
Nowadays, I find myself again not so cool. With gas prices raising faster than ninja at the grocery store, everyone seems to be taking public transportation these days.
Not me, I've been doing it for month, back when I was the only one of the bus and I did just for the satisfaction of looking down on hippies with a “greener than thou” look on my face.
Now the bus is become more and more crowded and every morning, I find myself reliving the nightmare of grade-school Steve, trying to find a seat before the scary bus driver hurls the bus towards the next stop.
It's a horrific labyrinth of people I don't want to sit be: too fat, too scary, too stinky, too female and it's really too much stress for me that early in the morning so I am putting my foot down. I was hear first, so of you are gonna hafta go.
Its for the good of everyone.
Or at least me.
The following people should not be allowed to ride the bus ever.
Bikers.
I'm not talking about the kind of bikers who peddle from their home and the bus stop. Those people are fine so long as then don't stand in front of me in those thing they have the gall to call shorts.
Trust me on this. I wear shorts more than any adult should. I'm almost an expert on shorts. If your pants are so tight your butt hair pokes through, those aren't shorts.
I'm talking about the guys who are so in to their bikes that that
The is nothing scarier than an angry biker. And there's not angrier than a biker forced to used public transportation. So I'm pretty sure that there's nothing scarier than a biker on the bus.
Maybe a clown with a gun that shoots rattlesnakes.
But there would have to be – like – four of them.
Old women who want to talk.
I don't know if they can't read, can't work an iPod or have just been around so long that they've already read and listened to anything but if you put a woman over the age of 70 on some sort of public transportation, and suddenly she really wants to talk with any random stranger who happens to be me.
And the cheaper the form of transportation, the crazier the woman becomes.
On a plane, she wants to talk about her grandkids, which is boring.
On a train, she wants to talk about her cats, which is more boring.
On the bus, she just wants to talk about herself, which is the most boring thing ever, and usually pretty gross because she has all kinds of health problems that she has to show me, some of which kind of make me throw up a little in my mouth.
The guy with the shovel.
I was on the bus a few weeks ago and some dude gets on with a shovel.
He didn't look like a farmer, an archaeologist or Smokey the Bear or anyone else who would have a good reason to have a shovel with them. I tried to come up with a situation that would require digging and an easy, yet anonymous way to get to and from the digging but all I could come up with were shallow graves and
Apparently I wasn't one freaking out about this guy. The biker on the bus shot me one of those “This guy is going to make on of us into ice cream topping,” looks and moved further back in the bus.
Attractive people.
Good looking people have no business being on the bus. You guys make the rest of us feel bad.
Finally, Dark Jedi.
I don't have any good reason. I just hate them so much.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a big fan of planes, trains and automobiles. Not the movie, he just like things that go vroooooooooom. Drop him a line below.
To swim or not to swim
It was a glorious two and a half weeks, but spring is over and we're now full on into summer.
All the changes that happen when we enter to hottest time of year are in full view already. The trees have enough leaves to give shade. The flowers are in full bloom. The grass has a bunch of brown spots from where people let there dogs poop in the snow 5 months ago and never cleaned it up.
But the sure-firest (surest-fire?) way to tell that it real is summer is to just walk by the pool in our apartment complex and notice the place is more crowded than the local IHOP (and this despite the fact there pool doesn't offer 5 kinds of syrup).
I never know how to react to the fact that there is a pool where I live. As a kid I always wanted one. Even started digging one for a while but then I started thinking about dinosaurs before long my T-rex and Triceratops were duking it out in my room.
Come to think of it, that's how all my childhood projects ended.
And a lot of my adult ones.
Anyway, now that I find myself with easy access to a pool I can never decide wether or not to use it. As an adult there and just so many conflicting pros and cons about the whole issue.
Maybe someone out there could help me. Let me just explain my thinking.
Pro: Sweat.
Just ask anyone who's ever been down wind of me, I am a sweaty stinky man.
I'm from Idaho, I'm built for colder climates. Once the summer hits my poor skin, I start sweating like a fat guy going up stairs.
That's just walking to the bus, when I work out in the sun I just look like a cartoon super villain made of stinky water.
I bet I produce more liquid per hour than 3 dairy cows.
This slimly covering may keep me cool and protect me from predators but it makes me none the more popular with the ladies. Not that I really am looking for any ladies at this point in my life, but no matter how married you get, it still hurts when they point and laugh.
That's one thing I really like about being at the pool. At the pool its hard to tell the difference between someone who is dripping wet with sexy pool-water and someone who is dripping wet with extremely un-sexy personal water.
Con: I suck at swimming.
For a guy who passed all the swimming requirements scouting could throw at him, I'm a really lousy swimmer.
I spent most my time like I did when I first started going to pools, clinging to the end of the pool only leaving to try to swim to the other side when either my mom's watching or some kid dares me to.
I always start out with pretty good form, by after two or three strokes I become the only person in the pool over the age of five doing the doggy paddle.
It's better for me to just stay on land, where I can usually get around with no problem.
And if I can't, I just fall, not drown.
Pro: bikinis. Lots of bikinis.
Much like losers wait for the swallows to return to that place they go, the average red blooded American male considers the return of bikinis into the realm of acceptable day wear as the true sign of summer.
Today I saw more cleavage and side cheek than I had since Christmas. And this was just on my way to check the mail.
Some people say that it's shameful to see women parading around half naked in public like that.
I think these people are idiots.
A woman wearing a bikini is way more than half naked. We're talking about what, less than two square feet of covering going on?
By my figures a well-figured woman in a proper bikini is anywhere between four/fifths to thirteen/fourteenths naked.
An Eskimo with his shirt off, that's half naked.
I swear this country can't do math anymore.
As much as I appreciate them I've never really understood the mentality behind bikinis. There are very few young women who would let random strangers see them in just their underwear. And yet, if you make that same underwear waterproof, and all of a sudden it's appropriate to were to grocery store.
Con: naked kids.
I'm all for skinny dipping in proper situations, like when it starts with gratuitous nudity and ends in bloody murder but there are limits.
I'm pretty sure it's against some sort of federal law or pool rule to let your offspring splash around – as the French say – buck naked, but I've seen baby wiener during too many trips past the pool.
At first I was against it for sanitary reasons. I was convinced that being in the buff would increase the chance of peeing in the pool by several hundred percent.
Then I wised up and realized that warm water, constant splashing and the commonly accepted fallacy that chlorine makes everything better has already made it so pretty that the only people who don't leave a little personal Kool-ade in the pool are the rare few who actually shower before getting in the pool.
They do their business there.
So I'm not worried about these kids doing anything I wouldn't do in the pool. I do, however, worry about the harsh rays of the sun. If a family is too lazy to put a suit on their kid, I'm pretty sure they didn't sunscreen them up properly.
I'd try to shade them myself, but that's just creepy, even for me. And I look at strangers' wedding photos on Flickr.
Geek on.
Steve Shinny is a poor swimming who accidentally typed the word “poop” every time he wanted to write “pool” and had to go back and change it while giggling like a school boy. Comments can and should be left below.
All the changes that happen when we enter to hottest time of year are in full view already. The trees have enough leaves to give shade. The flowers are in full bloom. The grass has a bunch of brown spots from where people let there dogs poop in the snow 5 months ago and never cleaned it up.
But the sure-firest (surest-fire?) way to tell that it real is summer is to just walk by the pool in our apartment complex and notice the place is more crowded than the local IHOP (and this despite the fact there pool doesn't offer 5 kinds of syrup).
I never know how to react to the fact that there is a pool where I live. As a kid I always wanted one. Even started digging one for a while but then I started thinking about dinosaurs before long my T-rex and Triceratops were duking it out in my room.
Come to think of it, that's how all my childhood projects ended.
And a lot of my adult ones.
Anyway, now that I find myself with easy access to a pool I can never decide wether or not to use it. As an adult there and just so many conflicting pros and cons about the whole issue.
Maybe someone out there could help me. Let me just explain my thinking.
Pro: Sweat.
Just ask anyone who's ever been down wind of me, I am a sweaty stinky man.
I'm from Idaho, I'm built for colder climates. Once the summer hits my poor skin, I start sweating like a fat guy going up stairs.
That's just walking to the bus, when I work out in the sun I just look like a cartoon super villain made of stinky water.
I bet I produce more liquid per hour than 3 dairy cows.
This slimly covering may keep me cool and protect me from predators but it makes me none the more popular with the ladies. Not that I really am looking for any ladies at this point in my life, but no matter how married you get, it still hurts when they point and laugh.
That's one thing I really like about being at the pool. At the pool its hard to tell the difference between someone who is dripping wet with sexy pool-water and someone who is dripping wet with extremely un-sexy personal water.
Con: I suck at swimming.
For a guy who passed all the swimming requirements scouting could throw at him, I'm a really lousy swimmer.
I spent most my time like I did when I first started going to pools, clinging to the end of the pool only leaving to try to swim to the other side when either my mom's watching or some kid dares me to.
I always start out with pretty good form, by after two or three strokes I become the only person in the pool over the age of five doing the doggy paddle.
It's better for me to just stay on land, where I can usually get around with no problem.
And if I can't, I just fall, not drown.
Pro: bikinis. Lots of bikinis.
Much like losers wait for the swallows to return to that place they go, the average red blooded American male considers the return of bikinis into the realm of acceptable day wear as the true sign of summer.
Today I saw more cleavage and side cheek than I had since Christmas. And this was just on my way to check the mail.
Some people say that it's shameful to see women parading around half naked in public like that.
I think these people are idiots.
A woman wearing a bikini is way more than half naked. We're talking about what, less than two square feet of covering going on?
By my figures a well-figured woman in a proper bikini is anywhere between four/fifths to thirteen/fourteenths naked.
An Eskimo with his shirt off, that's half naked.
I swear this country can't do math anymore.
As much as I appreciate them I've never really understood the mentality behind bikinis. There are very few young women who would let random strangers see them in just their underwear. And yet, if you make that same underwear waterproof, and all of a sudden it's appropriate to were to grocery store.
Con: naked kids.
I'm all for skinny dipping in proper situations, like when it starts with gratuitous nudity and ends in bloody murder but there are limits.
I'm pretty sure it's against some sort of federal law or pool rule to let your offspring splash around – as the French say – buck naked, but I've seen baby wiener during too many trips past the pool.
At first I was against it for sanitary reasons. I was convinced that being in the buff would increase the chance of peeing in the pool by several hundred percent.
Then I wised up and realized that warm water, constant splashing and the commonly accepted fallacy that chlorine makes everything better has already made it so pretty that the only people who don't leave a little personal Kool-ade in the pool are the rare few who actually shower before getting in the pool.
They do their business there.
So I'm not worried about these kids doing anything I wouldn't do in the pool. I do, however, worry about the harsh rays of the sun. If a family is too lazy to put a suit on their kid, I'm pretty sure they didn't sunscreen them up properly.
I'd try to shade them myself, but that's just creepy, even for me. And I look at strangers' wedding photos on Flickr.
Geek on.
Steve Shinny is a poor swimming who accidentally typed the word “poop” every time he wanted to write “pool” and had to go back and change it while giggling like a school boy. Comments can and should be left below.
Save a trip, get the snip
There are a lot of big decisions that parents have to make. On decision that parents of new born boys find them selves facing is the issue of whether or not to have their kid circumcised.
I've already decided that any boys I end up having will have it done. I figure if someday they ever decide to go Jewish they'll be really glad that I did.
Geek on.
I've already decided that any boys I end up having will have it done. I figure if someday they ever decide to go Jewish they'll be really glad that I did.
Geek on.
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