Normally when I see an ad or a poster with a group of people from all the different races I get a little upset because I think it is tokenism and tokenism is stupid.
But today I half Asian son played with a white kid, two black kids and two Mexican kids.
You know, when it’s not being used to sell me on Walmart, tokenism’s kinda cool.
Wheeeeee!
As I’m writing this, my back is incredibly itchy. When you’re sitting alone in your basement office/hide-from-responsibility room, your back is the absolute worst place to develop an inch. This is sort of ironic because it’s actually the best location to develop an inch that if you were anywhere else would be a major problem - your crotch.
But that’s neither here nor there.
The reason I would currently trade my map to the secret Lost City of Gold for the ability to scratch the middle third of my back is I’m recovering from a sun burn. Nothing too bad, just red enough to make everyone I meet want to slap me on the back as a greeting.
But as a pasty-white-guy, after the mandatory three days of pain as punishment for leaving my home, I now get to spend the next 48 hours as a micro-leper, scared of people, constantly scratching and pulling off dead parts of my body.
It was worth it though. My own flesh is the currency I gladly pay to enjoy the world outside of my home and office.
The part of the world that I dared to enjoy without the protective covering of a Hawaiian shirt was Seven Peaks Water Park in Salt Lake City, formerly (and currently by me and my family to lazy to accept the name change) known as Raging Waters.
My family and I spent last Friday chilling by the pool, chilling down the lazy river and chilling down some great water slides. It’s hard to chill while plummeting 5 stories, 20 feet in the air down a man made river held up by 2 inches of plastic, but that just how chillax we are.
It wasn’t all chill and cool though.
Places like this always have lines just long enough to be stupid. It is impossible to surrounded by that much water and not have to constantly pee. And despite great advances in all other forms of technology, we still build the steps to our water slides out of wood that can only do three things:
1) get really hot under bare feet
2) put splinters into bare feet
3) look unsafe
That being said, I had a great time. There’s something about revisiting important places from your youth that awakens your inner child in ways that watching the schlock they call Saturday morning cartoons these days never could.
For example, I am convinced that there is an age at which I will be able to go down a water slide on a tube and not pretend that I’m flying a TIE fighter from Star Wars.
However, that age is not 29.
On the other hand, I am hoping there is an age where I can see a woman in a tiny bikini and I don’t spend the whole time looking 15 degrees to the left of her so I can ogle safely from behind my sunglasses.
That age is also not 29.
I do know for a fact that there is an age where you can watch a ten-year-old run to get in line for a water slide that you just don’t dare and not feel like less of a man because you know in you heart of hearts that he’s not braver than you, he’s just got less to live for.
And that age, my friends, is 29.
Geek on.
But that’s neither here nor there.
The reason I would currently trade my map to the secret Lost City of Gold for the ability to scratch the middle third of my back is I’m recovering from a sun burn. Nothing too bad, just red enough to make everyone I meet want to slap me on the back as a greeting.
But as a pasty-white-guy, after the mandatory three days of pain as punishment for leaving my home, I now get to spend the next 48 hours as a micro-leper, scared of people, constantly scratching and pulling off dead parts of my body.
It was worth it though. My own flesh is the currency I gladly pay to enjoy the world outside of my home and office.
The part of the world that I dared to enjoy without the protective covering of a Hawaiian shirt was Seven Peaks Water Park in Salt Lake City, formerly (and currently by me and my family to lazy to accept the name change) known as Raging Waters.
My family and I spent last Friday chilling by the pool, chilling down the lazy river and chilling down some great water slides. It’s hard to chill while plummeting 5 stories, 20 feet in the air down a man made river held up by 2 inches of plastic, but that just how chillax we are.
It wasn’t all chill and cool though.
Places like this always have lines just long enough to be stupid. It is impossible to surrounded by that much water and not have to constantly pee. And despite great advances in all other forms of technology, we still build the steps to our water slides out of wood that can only do three things:
1) get really hot under bare feet
2) put splinters into bare feet
3) look unsafe
That being said, I had a great time. There’s something about revisiting important places from your youth that awakens your inner child in ways that watching the schlock they call Saturday morning cartoons these days never could.
For example, I am convinced that there is an age at which I will be able to go down a water slide on a tube and not pretend that I’m flying a TIE fighter from Star Wars.
However, that age is not 29.
On the other hand, I am hoping there is an age where I can see a woman in a tiny bikini and I don’t spend the whole time looking 15 degrees to the left of her so I can ogle safely from behind my sunglasses.
That age is also not 29.
I do know for a fact that there is an age where you can watch a ten-year-old run to get in line for a water slide that you just don’t dare and not feel like less of a man because you know in you heart of hearts that he’s not braver than you, he’s just got less to live for.
And that age, my friends, is 29.
Geek on.
This kid gets it
I was hanging out with my son at the slides at the local park today (because if I hang out there without him, I get the cops called on me) and there were a couple of mothers there watching their two kids -- a boy and girl about five-years-old -- as they climbed on the Monkey Bars.
As they were approaching an especially difficult leg of their journey, the girl said with a grave tone in her voice “We need to be careful, this is extremely dangerous.”
Without missing a beat, the boy responded in a voice that was the vocal equivalent of rolling his eyes.
“You’ve been learning words from your Mommy haven’t you?”
As they were approaching an especially difficult leg of their journey, the girl said with a grave tone in her voice “We need to be careful, this is extremely dangerous.”
Without missing a beat, the boy responded in a voice that was the vocal equivalent of rolling his eyes.
“You’ve been learning words from your Mommy haven’t you?”
Here goes nothing
The Boy, this is your father speaking, so put down whatever you are into when I decide to read/give this to you and listen.
As I write this it is July 25, 2011, you are 20 months old and have just gone to bed. Today was a simple day, very simple in fact. And yet, amidst all the simplicity, you taught me something so profound that I just had to write it down.
First, a bit of background. I said today was a simple day, and it was, but it was the kind of simple day that you live for when you become a parent. We were going to take you to the library.
I’m not sure what your study habits will be like when you’re older, but here and now, you love the library. If we’d let you, you would spent hours, running between the shelves of books, discovering new things at every turn. You love to have your mother or me read to your from the baby books bin. You love to grab magazines with Elmo or Thomas the Tank Engine on them and explain everything about them to us in your own language. You love all the posters and decorations they have there for you to enjoy.
Today however, being the Monday after a Pioneer Day Sunday, the library was closed. We didn’t realize this until we had pulled into the parking lot. You were heart broken. You kicked and thrashed against your car seat and against the injustice of it all.
Your mother, the quick-thinker she always is, placated you by saying we could take you to school next to the library to play on the recess toys. If there’s one place you like more than a library, it’s a park. There’s less books, but more screaming, which is a fair trade in your young mind.
We’d never taken you to this park before. You were hesitant at first, but grew more adventurous, eventually climbing higher than you ever have before. When the time came, you didn’t want to leave. Even the first drops of rain would not dissuade you from pointing at the numbers on the hopscotch boards and giggling with glee.
To move you closer to the car while maintaining your level of happiness, your mother and I each took a hand. When run together for a few steps and then “One Two Three!” swing you forward into the air. You laughed, your mother couldn’t help but smile and I tried to capture the moment in my mind so that I could live in it forever.
I was convinced the day could not get better.
I was wrong.
The rain picked up, damping the world and our spirits. We ran to the car, and promised you that we’d come back and play there again soon. We drove home. As your mother and I cowered in the garage, looking out into the rain, you ran straight in, laughing as you went.
Knowing your mother is part cat and hates to get wet, I went after you. I was about to bend over to pick you up and carry you back into the house, when I decided the “Cool Dad” thing to do would be play with you in the rain for a while.
We started to walk around the block, at least you did, and I followed. As is normal for most kids your age, it was a slow walk, because you had to stop to examine everything. Every rock, every yard, every puddle was the most amazing thing in the world to you.
I hope one day you’ll understand what it does to you to watch your child explore, it makes you slow down and try to understand what they find so fascinating. You think back to your own youth, and for a few minutes recaptures the feelings of wonder and amazement you used to feel when everything was new.
That’s what happened to me. You’d seen everything that we looked at before. Many times in fact. But tonight it was different. Tonight it was wet, shiny and clean and despite the fact that you had to get soaking wet to do, you wanted to see every last bit of it.
I hated when I had to bring it all to end as bed time closed in. But even as I carried you home on my shoulders you were amazed by what was around us and you were smiling.
I pondered this as we finished the last leg of our journey. Into all our lives, rain will fall. Rain that will make us cold, wet and miserable. But the rain will bring with it change. It will wash the world clean and if we embrace it, it’ll wash us too.
When this rain comes, it brings with it a choice. We can hide, staying indoors, where we are safe, warm and where everything is the same. Or we can run, laughing, into the downpour.
We’ll see things in a different way than ever before. We’ll overcome our fears and dislikes, and find a whole new world to play in.
Today you taught me to run in the rain. Something I’d forgotten over the last 27 years since I was your age, when the time comes, I hope to teach it to you again.
Thanks boy.
You’re the best.
As I write this it is July 25, 2011, you are 20 months old and have just gone to bed. Today was a simple day, very simple in fact. And yet, amidst all the simplicity, you taught me something so profound that I just had to write it down.
First, a bit of background. I said today was a simple day, and it was, but it was the kind of simple day that you live for when you become a parent. We were going to take you to the library.
I’m not sure what your study habits will be like when you’re older, but here and now, you love the library. If we’d let you, you would spent hours, running between the shelves of books, discovering new things at every turn. You love to have your mother or me read to your from the baby books bin. You love to grab magazines with Elmo or Thomas the Tank Engine on them and explain everything about them to us in your own language. You love all the posters and decorations they have there for you to enjoy.
Today however, being the Monday after a Pioneer Day Sunday, the library was closed. We didn’t realize this until we had pulled into the parking lot. You were heart broken. You kicked and thrashed against your car seat and against the injustice of it all.
Your mother, the quick-thinker she always is, placated you by saying we could take you to school next to the library to play on the recess toys. If there’s one place you like more than a library, it’s a park. There’s less books, but more screaming, which is a fair trade in your young mind.
We’d never taken you to this park before. You were hesitant at first, but grew more adventurous, eventually climbing higher than you ever have before. When the time came, you didn’t want to leave. Even the first drops of rain would not dissuade you from pointing at the numbers on the hopscotch boards and giggling with glee.
To move you closer to the car while maintaining your level of happiness, your mother and I each took a hand. When run together for a few steps and then “One Two Three!” swing you forward into the air. You laughed, your mother couldn’t help but smile and I tried to capture the moment in my mind so that I could live in it forever.
I was convinced the day could not get better.
I was wrong.
The rain picked up, damping the world and our spirits. We ran to the car, and promised you that we’d come back and play there again soon. We drove home. As your mother and I cowered in the garage, looking out into the rain, you ran straight in, laughing as you went.
Knowing your mother is part cat and hates to get wet, I went after you. I was about to bend over to pick you up and carry you back into the house, when I decided the “Cool Dad” thing to do would be play with you in the rain for a while.
We started to walk around the block, at least you did, and I followed. As is normal for most kids your age, it was a slow walk, because you had to stop to examine everything. Every rock, every yard, every puddle was the most amazing thing in the world to you.
I hope one day you’ll understand what it does to you to watch your child explore, it makes you slow down and try to understand what they find so fascinating. You think back to your own youth, and for a few minutes recaptures the feelings of wonder and amazement you used to feel when everything was new.
That’s what happened to me. You’d seen everything that we looked at before. Many times in fact. But tonight it was different. Tonight it was wet, shiny and clean and despite the fact that you had to get soaking wet to do, you wanted to see every last bit of it.
I hated when I had to bring it all to end as bed time closed in. But even as I carried you home on my shoulders you were amazed by what was around us and you were smiling.
I pondered this as we finished the last leg of our journey. Into all our lives, rain will fall. Rain that will make us cold, wet and miserable. But the rain will bring with it change. It will wash the world clean and if we embrace it, it’ll wash us too.
When this rain comes, it brings with it a choice. We can hide, staying indoors, where we are safe, warm and where everything is the same. Or we can run, laughing, into the downpour.
We’ll see things in a different way than ever before. We’ll overcome our fears and dislikes, and find a whole new world to play in.
Today you taught me to run in the rain. Something I’d forgotten over the last 27 years since I was your age, when the time comes, I hope to teach it to you again.
Thanks boy.
You’re the best.
Lt. Governer, I choose you!
Whelp, it’s the second week of November which means I can finally start considering the waves of campaign signs that have infested my world for the last two months as what they really are:
Red white and blue litter.
I don’t mean to sound anti-elections. I love elections. I just hate election time.
I think every two years (even though it turns out we have elections every year. Who knew?) everyone other the age of eighteen (and especially those over 60) goes election stupid.
We chose sides, we wear obnoxious buttons, we even stand in the street and yell at each other like shopkeepers in a country only Indiana Jones would visit.
And the voter guilt. Heaven forbid you decide your not informed enough to make a proper decision and decide to stay home. You, sir, are the scum of the earth. You don’t deserve to live in this great country where every man and woman has the right to let their voice be heard!
Now get your butt down to the grade school and vote for who I tell you to vote for
Fortunately I did vote this year. In fact for the first time I voted by mail a couple days before the election. It was nice, I got all the joys of looking down on people who didn’t vote with out all that hassle of actually going some where and smelling old people.
There is a downside to voting by mail -- two actually if you count the fact that filling in bubbles on a sheet of paper still gives me an stress headache. Since I voted days prior, late at night when I should have been playing Starcraft 2, I don’t actually remember who I voted for in several races. And now that results are in, I’m not sure if I should be happy or not.
I’m also not sure how I should feel about knowing who a voted for. On the one hand, I know that I’m not one of those stupid, straight-party ticket voters (more on this later). On the other though, I can not, with 100% assureity, say that I didn’t not just trust the future of my state to eenie-meenie-miney-mo.
Plus this doesn’t exactly speak volumes for my ability to do the basic things required by adulthood. I’m not going to read too much into it. I know I’m smart. I can program complex software, understand most episodes of Nova and perform 6 hit combos in Street Fighter 4. Who I voted for just happens to be one of those things I can’t remember, like where I put my keys or that the end of the first Matrix is actually really dumb.
In fact this may through into doubt whether or not I should be trusted with the responsibility to even vote at all.
Maybe I’m not...maybe the country is like my little league baseball team and would have been better off if I had just stayed home.
Nah, I voted. And according to all the celebrities, that’s all that matters.
I promised I say something about straight ticket voters. I don’t mean to speak ill of people who want to save themselves the labor of filling out 12 bubbles, but I’m just against it in principle.
I just can’t understand having so much faith in a political party that you will vote for them regardless of who the individual candidate is. I mean, I love the New York Yankees, but if the kid who used to pants me at the bus stop stepped up to the plate in pinstripes, you better believe I’m hoping he takes a bean-ball to the crotch.
It’s the same thing with parties. You can vote for each candidate from a party if you want, but be sure to vote for each candidate from the party. It’s just a matter of principle.
Principle. The same reason I always write in Jean-Luc Picard in one unopposed race every year. Principle.
Geek On.
Holy crap it feels good to type that again.
Steve Shinney is happy he voted, happy he wrote, and happy that eggnog is back in the stores. Comments below make him happy too.
Red white and blue litter.
I don’t mean to sound anti-elections. I love elections. I just hate election time.
I think every two years (even though it turns out we have elections every year. Who knew?) everyone other the age of eighteen (and especially those over 60) goes election stupid.
We chose sides, we wear obnoxious buttons, we even stand in the street and yell at each other like shopkeepers in a country only Indiana Jones would visit.
And the voter guilt. Heaven forbid you decide your not informed enough to make a proper decision and decide to stay home. You, sir, are the scum of the earth. You don’t deserve to live in this great country where every man and woman has the right to let their voice be heard!
Now get your butt down to the grade school and vote for who I tell you to vote for
Fortunately I did vote this year. In fact for the first time I voted by mail a couple days before the election. It was nice, I got all the joys of looking down on people who didn’t vote with out all that hassle of actually going some where and smelling old people.
There is a downside to voting by mail -- two actually if you count the fact that filling in bubbles on a sheet of paper still gives me an stress headache. Since I voted days prior, late at night when I should have been playing Starcraft 2, I don’t actually remember who I voted for in several races. And now that results are in, I’m not sure if I should be happy or not.
I’m also not sure how I should feel about knowing who a voted for. On the one hand, I know that I’m not one of those stupid, straight-party ticket voters (more on this later). On the other though, I can not, with 100% assureity, say that I didn’t not just trust the future of my state to eenie-meenie-miney-mo.
Plus this doesn’t exactly speak volumes for my ability to do the basic things required by adulthood. I’m not going to read too much into it. I know I’m smart. I can program complex software, understand most episodes of Nova and perform 6 hit combos in Street Fighter 4. Who I voted for just happens to be one of those things I can’t remember, like where I put my keys or that the end of the first Matrix is actually really dumb.
In fact this may through into doubt whether or not I should be trusted with the responsibility to even vote at all.
Maybe I’m not...maybe the country is like my little league baseball team and would have been better off if I had just stayed home.
Nah, I voted. And according to all the celebrities, that’s all that matters.
I promised I say something about straight ticket voters. I don’t mean to speak ill of people who want to save themselves the labor of filling out 12 bubbles, but I’m just against it in principle.
I just can’t understand having so much faith in a political party that you will vote for them regardless of who the individual candidate is. I mean, I love the New York Yankees, but if the kid who used to pants me at the bus stop stepped up to the plate in pinstripes, you better believe I’m hoping he takes a bean-ball to the crotch.
It’s the same thing with parties. You can vote for each candidate from a party if you want, but be sure to vote for each candidate from the party. It’s just a matter of principle.
Principle. The same reason I always write in Jean-Luc Picard in one unopposed race every year. Principle.
Geek On.
Holy crap it feels good to type that again.
Steve Shinney is happy he voted, happy he wrote, and happy that eggnog is back in the stores. Comments below make him happy too.
Here we are again
Watching the US vs Ghana game on Saturday was a familiar feeling. Not a warm fuzzy familiar feeling like well-warn shoes or a hug from your grandma. It was more like the familiar sting of dentist drill. Gnawing, grating and painful, but at least all the waiting is over.
Normally I hate people who look down on people who are new to there chosen hobby. I think it's elitist and counter-productive to mock the people you should be welcoming into the family of the fandom.
But as elitist and counter-productive as it is, I can't help but think a lot of the reaction from newer US soccer "fans" is down right pants-on-backwards stupid. There is a real sense of anger among some of these people. They feel the team is nothing but a bunch of "posers" who have let them down personally.
These people who obviously weren't watching back in 1998 when these United States took butt last in the tournament and were flat out told by the world that we didn't belong there. When some one says America let them down after their first time ever winning their group, I want to scream, I want to yell, I want to point back in time and demand to know where they were when we were picking up the pieces of 2006 saying "Well, at least we did OK against Italy" (and we really didn't).
Now am I upset that the American's aren't going to the quarter finals? Of course, that second goal 5 minutes into extra time stung like a soccer ball to the gut when playing on the "skins" team. I was devastated that they lost. It was a winnable game, and after watching so many unwinnable ones, I was distraught to see this one slip away.
The difference is that I knew full well at some point between June and July 2010, team USA was going to break my heart and I was going to enjoy every minute of the ride until then. It's like if the head cheerleader decides to "go out" with you as part of a horrible joke, but you go along with it for the free make outs.
People new to cheering for the red, white and blue aren't used to the fact that rooting for the Yanks is like being a Milwaukee Brewers fan. You know you're not going to win, you just hope the team makes a good show on the way.
And did they ever give us a good show!
The luckiest shot in the history of the game.
A come back from down 2 only to have the go ahead goal taken away in a hair pulling example of what makes this game so awesome.
And finally, a stoppage time goal to lift the team from elimination to the round of 16.
The Mighty Ducks would never have such a script because no one would believe it. And I don't know if my heart could handle the US going all the way to the final game and this rate.
It was a heck of a ride and I enjoy (almost) every minute of it.
And so, I say to Team USA, thank you.
Thank you for playing your hearts out.
Thank you for showing the world what American grit is all about.
Thank you for winning your group.
Thank you for proving that Americans can play soccer and play it well.
Thank you for never giving up, and I promise I'll never give up on you.
Next time though, trying to have some semblance of defense for the first 15 minutes of the game. Thanks.
Besides, now that my team is out, I don't have to worry about a single other game. I can just watch the highest possible level of the beautiful game and enjoy each game for the event that it is.
That's the real thing for me, I may be a US soccer fan, but I'm a soccer fan first. I want to see America do well, but when they don't, so long as I can watch some one else do well (in a completely separate match mind you) I really am ok. I wish the World Cup would never end. I wish every day of the year I could turn on the TV (in America) and see world class soccer. I can't though. That will not be happening any time soon. So for the one month out of 48 when it does happen, I don't have time to be pissed off for very long.
I've got too much great soccer to watch.
Steve Shinney is a huge Soccer fan. He hopes to get back to the business of this blog soon. Comments can be left below.
Normally I hate people who look down on people who are new to there chosen hobby. I think it's elitist and counter-productive to mock the people you should be welcoming into the family of the fandom.
But as elitist and counter-productive as it is, I can't help but think a lot of the reaction from newer US soccer "fans" is down right pants-on-backwards stupid. There is a real sense of anger among some of these people. They feel the team is nothing but a bunch of "posers" who have let them down personally.
These people who obviously weren't watching back in 1998 when these United States took butt last in the tournament and were flat out told by the world that we didn't belong there. When some one says America let them down after their first time ever winning their group, I want to scream, I want to yell, I want to point back in time and demand to know where they were when we were picking up the pieces of 2006 saying "Well, at least we did OK against Italy" (and we really didn't).
Now am I upset that the American's aren't going to the quarter finals? Of course, that second goal 5 minutes into extra time stung like a soccer ball to the gut when playing on the "skins" team. I was devastated that they lost. It was a winnable game, and after watching so many unwinnable ones, I was distraught to see this one slip away.
The difference is that I knew full well at some point between June and July 2010, team USA was going to break my heart and I was going to enjoy every minute of the ride until then. It's like if the head cheerleader decides to "go out" with you as part of a horrible joke, but you go along with it for the free make outs.
People new to cheering for the red, white and blue aren't used to the fact that rooting for the Yanks is like being a Milwaukee Brewers fan. You know you're not going to win, you just hope the team makes a good show on the way.
And did they ever give us a good show!
The luckiest shot in the history of the game.
A come back from down 2 only to have the go ahead goal taken away in a hair pulling example of what makes this game so awesome.
And finally, a stoppage time goal to lift the team from elimination to the round of 16.
The Mighty Ducks would never have such a script because no one would believe it. And I don't know if my heart could handle the US going all the way to the final game and this rate.
It was a heck of a ride and I enjoy (almost) every minute of it.
And so, I say to Team USA, thank you.
Thank you for playing your hearts out.
Thank you for showing the world what American grit is all about.
Thank you for winning your group.
Thank you for proving that Americans can play soccer and play it well.
Thank you for never giving up, and I promise I'll never give up on you.
Next time though, trying to have some semblance of defense for the first 15 minutes of the game. Thanks.
Besides, now that my team is out, I don't have to worry about a single other game. I can just watch the highest possible level of the beautiful game and enjoy each game for the event that it is.
That's the real thing for me, I may be a US soccer fan, but I'm a soccer fan first. I want to see America do well, but when they don't, so long as I can watch some one else do well (in a completely separate match mind you) I really am ok. I wish the World Cup would never end. I wish every day of the year I could turn on the TV (in America) and see world class soccer. I can't though. That will not be happening any time soon. So for the one month out of 48 when it does happen, I don't have time to be pissed off for very long.
I've got too much great soccer to watch.
Steve Shinney is a huge Soccer fan. He hopes to get back to the business of this blog soon. Comments can be left below.
Whenever my son counts I hear lightning, is that normal
Father's Note: I started this column when Grant was only two weeks old and I was super sleep deprived and still more than a little freaking out about the whole being a daddy thing. This whole mind set kept me from ever really sitting down and finishing this piece or any other for that matter. Now things have calmed down enough that I want to start writing again. Unfortunately, I'm now such an awesome father that no one would believe a lot of the stuff I had planned. This piece for example no longer makes sense now that I've been taking care of the the kid for 4 months. Still there are some days when he really is a monster.
My baby is a vampire.
I don't know why no one has noticed this before but he is definitely a frickin' vampire.
I'm not sure if all newborns are Nosferatu or just mine is but there is no way around it: He only sleep during the day. He terrorize innocent people at night. He get all their nourishment from sucking fluids out of another living human being.
I can't be the only one to connect all these dots.
So I have a tiny little vampire bundled up in small wooden box in my room. What am I supposed to do?
The day I became a registered Libertarian, I sworn to battle the undead wherever I encounter them, not wrap them up in little puppy dog blankets and sing to them about rainbows and rubber duckies.
And yet, this vampire is just so cute.
Every time I get the crosses out and sharpen all of my stakes I look at him there, snuggled up like the world's cuddliest prince of darkness and my heart just melts.
It's a real conflict of interest for me. I'm sure you can understand.
Babies hate it when you rub garlic on their faces.
So here I am, trying to come up with a plan. I can destroy my own flesh and blood, totally piss off my wife and be forever know as that guy who dropped his infant into the Holy Water fountain at the local cathedral or I could create an elaborate plan where I raise this vampire as my own son so that I can one day turn him against his own kind.
I've decided to go with number two because this way I get to play with a baby, which is always fun.
Babies can't go out in the sun or they'll sparkle.
So now that I have a plan of action, I need to figure how to go about doing it. You can't just start something like this by making stake-hurling crossbows and bullets infused with sunlight in your garage.
I need to contain the child and keep him under control. I've gotten his crib treated with salt and made a crucifix mobile.
I'm looking into a way to surround the nursery with running water and I never go in there without a mirror. It's a small start, but I figure by the time he's four he should be stronger than a pro football player and able to turn into a bat. I figure that's we can start training.
Babies can make women do whatever they want just by looking at them.
So that's father hood for me so far. I'm looking forward to receiving my first father's day gift: The severed head a vampire clan leader.
Babies look really good in a tuxedo.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a little bit disappointed his first born was a vampire. He was really hoping for a werewolf or a matador. It could be worse, he could have been a girl. Comments and vampire raising suggestions can and should be left below.
My baby is a vampire.
I don't know why no one has noticed this before but he is definitely a frickin' vampire.
I'm not sure if all newborns are Nosferatu or just mine is but there is no way around it: He only sleep during the day. He terrorize innocent people at night. He get all their nourishment from sucking fluids out of another living human being.
I can't be the only one to connect all these dots.
So I have a tiny little vampire bundled up in small wooden box in my room. What am I supposed to do?
The day I became a registered Libertarian, I sworn to battle the undead wherever I encounter them, not wrap them up in little puppy dog blankets and sing to them about rainbows and rubber duckies.
And yet, this vampire is just so cute.
Every time I get the crosses out and sharpen all of my stakes I look at him there, snuggled up like the world's cuddliest prince of darkness and my heart just melts.
It's a real conflict of interest for me. I'm sure you can understand.
Babies hate it when you rub garlic on their faces.
So here I am, trying to come up with a plan. I can destroy my own flesh and blood, totally piss off my wife and be forever know as that guy who dropped his infant into the Holy Water fountain at the local cathedral or I could create an elaborate plan where I raise this vampire as my own son so that I can one day turn him against his own kind.
I've decided to go with number two because this way I get to play with a baby, which is always fun.
Babies can't go out in the sun or they'll sparkle.
So now that I have a plan of action, I need to figure how to go about doing it. You can't just start something like this by making stake-hurling crossbows and bullets infused with sunlight in your garage.
I need to contain the child and keep him under control. I've gotten his crib treated with salt and made a crucifix mobile.
I'm looking into a way to surround the nursery with running water and I never go in there without a mirror. It's a small start, but I figure by the time he's four he should be stronger than a pro football player and able to turn into a bat. I figure that's we can start training.
Babies can make women do whatever they want just by looking at them.
So that's father hood for me so far. I'm looking forward to receiving my first father's day gift: The severed head a vampire clan leader.
Babies look really good in a tuxedo.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a little bit disappointed his first born was a vampire. He was really hoping for a werewolf or a matador. It could be worse, he could have been a girl. Comments and vampire raising suggestions can and should be left below.
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