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5:50 a.m. - 2003-07-13


For the last several eternities, my wife has wanted us to have a portrait done.

Not just ANY portrait, but an Olan Mills portrait.

Because, apparently, when discussing the shiznit of all portrait people, Olan Mills is the one that make people go "Yep. They's the top dog shiznit of portrait shootin' people."

Or something.

So when we went back to church last week for the first time in three months, it was announced that the church was getting this book together that would have all of the families from church's photos in it.

This is so that when new people join the church, they can get one of these books and look at it and learn everyone's names that way.

And if they find someone they think is hot, they can stare at the picture and have impure thoughts and burn in hell for using a church directory to further their sexual fantasies and/or perversions.


So anyway, we signed up to get our portrait done Saturday morning at 10:30 a.m.

Which, for those of you who have yet to master the intricacies of the Gregorian calendar, would have been yesterday.

So we get dressed up in our Sunday best for a Saturday morning photo shoot at the church.

We get to the church and about half the church congregation is there.

Naturally, everyone has to walk up and hug us and tell us how glad they are that we're back, blah dee frickin' blah.

And they have to comment on how big Andrew has gotten in the last three months, which I'll admit ... the kid is getting taller. He's still dumb as a burnt rock, but he's a tall idiot.

Our 10:30 appointment time must have just been for looks, because it was 11:10 before the photographer came out to the throng of God-fearing elderly people and us and said "Uncle Bob and family?"

"Right here, Andy Warhol," I said, raising my hand and gathering my wife and son to walk back into the Sunday School Room/Photography Den.

We get in there and because this guy is with Olan Freakin' Mills, he's going to make me look as stupid as possible.

"Alright Dad...lean in and latch on to your son's crotch with a firm turn your head at a 58 degree angle .... now lean back ... that's too far back...that's perfect. Now, reach around Mom's shoulder and cup a other breast ... now....stick your tongue out as far as it will go, pretending to lick the breast ... that's good...that's good ... that's good...."

It didn't take us long to realize this WASN'T the photographer. It was some perv who snuck in the back door, had chloroformed the photographer and was shooting an elderly sex video.

The police came and arrested the pervert. Luckily, we had some smelling salts near where we store the body of Christ (i.e. crushed saltines) and the photographer was revived and got back to work.

The photographer had me twisted like a pretzel in order to look natural.

Here's the two things I hate about professional photographers:

1) They always try to get me to tilt my head at a stupid angle while I'm grinning like I just shit myself. I always feel like Pavlov's Dog and there's some bell ringing off in the distance with my head cocked like a moron.

2) That stupid assed pose where you fold your hands and then cock your head on top of your hands at an angle so that you look like you're desperate for some hot man-on-man action and QUICK!

These poses are more unnatural than Demi Moore's breasts, yet every single photographer I've ever encountered tries to coax me into these poses.

And every time I do the best I can to appease them.

I have no idea why.

It's like I think the photographer's going to beat me with a belt if I don't tilt my head at a 90 degree angle and grin like a Special Olympics winner.

The amazing thing about this guy that I'm still ultra impressed with is that he managed to befriend Andrew in a short amount of time.

Andrew is very wary of adults. He flat out doesn't like them.

But this photographer took about five shots of the family and then swooped into the picture, grabbed Andrew and snapped some of the Mrs and I as if we were a happy couple with broken necks.

And Andrew was cool with it.

Then it was Andrew's turn to get his own pictures.

I wanted to say "'ve got your work cut out for you now. Andrew WON'T sit still OR smile."


He sat still and grinned at the photographer who had a rubber duck on his head and was talking like Mickey Mouse on helium.

We ended up spending close to $800 on pictures afterwards.

Which is a lot of money.

But Susie finally gets her family portrait that she's wanted since we got married.

And I get a wallet sized photo of my family, posing as if our necks were made out of Jell-o.

I've got to go out of town for a few days which I think we've already discussed.

So for the next few days, if you need a Bobbo on the Random Entrylink until I get back.

But seriously ... can't you go a few days without my sweet, sugary goodness?

Mmm hmmm.

That's what I thought.

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