ACCORDIONS, PERVERTS AND SWEET POTATO BURRITOS

Happy f'n Monday to you!!

Man ... oh man ... lemme tell you kids something. BEFORE you ever get married, meet EVERY SINGLE LAST ONE of your potential in-laws before you slip that ring on that bony assed finger.

Because you may THINK that you're marrying one person.

Uh-uh, Forrest Gump. You're marrying the whole damned family.

Case in point...Day SIX of our visit from Grandpa and Step-Grandma.

Okay ... I'm ready to kill these people. If you hear Tom Brokaw talking about a guy in Alabama who killed members of his wife's family before sitting down for a quiet meal of meatloaf tonight ... you can say out loud..."Damn. I knew that guy."

Because...this shit is wearing thin.

Lemme tell you the kind of people these guys are:

On WEDNESDAY of last week, I made a simple comment. I was holding my baby and he pooted.

Loudly.

I looked him in the eye and said "Have you got an accordion in there?"

Now then, I say this kinda stuff 100 times a day. I don't even remember saying it a few minutes later. That's me ... the guy who says a lot of shit and doesn't remember it later.

It cracked my father in law up.

Literally HOURS later, he was wiping tears from his eyes silently, because he was trying to keep his giggling to himself...over that SAME LINE. He couldn't get it out of his head and it made him laugh until he cried.

Therefore...EVERY TIME THE KID FARTS ...Either Grandma or Grandpa say something about an accordion and burst into giggles.

Alright...my kid is six weeks old.

AND HE FARTS CONSTANTLY.

So every ten minutes or so, we get a reprise of the Accordion line.

It's like if you have a CD that's sticking and you hear the same note repeating over and over again until it becomes white noise.

...This sound ... nonstop over the course of an f'n week...

Are you getting the picture now??

And...because Grandma and Grandpa are here...that means every other single member of the family on a local scale must be here as well.

Including my porn-surfing perv of a 13 year old nephew.

He wasn't here five minutes last night...

"Uncle Bob, can I check my email?" he asked innocently.

I wanted to say "Can you do it without stumbling into www.nudefuckingwomen.com?"

Instead I said "No, you may not get on my computer."

He groaned.

This little 13 year-old pervert had the audacity to GROAN at me because I wouldn't let him use my computer to download Jamaican Jungle Sluts.

I came THISCLOSE to telling everyone in the room, "The reason I won't let the nephew get on the Internet is because he heads straight for the porno sites." I bet Grandma woulda jumped up and ran to scald her hands.

So he trudged back to the computer room, dragging his heels.

The gall of this little bastard.

I have NOT told his parents that their little angel is a full-blown porno conniseur who could probably serve as an amateur proctologist after all the porn he's managed to download from my computer.

Nope.

I stayed mum on that subject so far.

I HAVE decided though (for those who can't put two and two together) that he is now barred from ever using the internet again.

I don't care if the Pope himself is standing over his shoulder...no more internet for you, pervy.

That'll teach him.

Yeah.

No more fake titties for you, Jr.

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We went over to the preacher's house Saturday night for dinner.

She's a vegetarian.

I ... am a mad carnivore.

So ... I was a bit worried over what to expect.

Sweet Potato Burritos.

Pardon me?? Come again??

Sweet Potato Burritos.

Oooooookay. Humor me. Show me what a sweet potato burrito tastes like.

Mmmmm-hmmmm.

Tastes like a burrito. With sweet potatos, rather than actual MEAT.

It wasn't bad. I've had worse.

But the conversation was excellent. I really like my preacher. He's got some amazingly funny stories for a preacher.

And get this ...

Guess who had a beer during dinner???

Try ... the preacher and his wife.

NOT Uncle Bob or his wife.

I mean...if you're a beer-guzzling preacher ... you're A-OK with me.

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The weather change here, like most of the country, has been dramatic over the last 36 hours.

On Saturday, I walked the dog in t-shirt and shorts and the temperature was 75 degrees.

Yesterday, we had a wind chill of zero when I walked the dog. It never got out of the 30s all day.

I still walked the dog in t-shirt and shorts.

It was my subtle way of saying "Fuck you, Mother Nature".

Of course ... I haven't been able to find my testicles for the last 24 hours or so ... but that's the price you pay as a atmospherical rights protester.

Uh huh.

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Late yesterday afternoon, Susie and I were left alone for about six and a half minutes. No family, no friends.

So we slipped into something a little comfortable and drank eggnog.

She had a small glass.

I drank the rest of the carton.

Okay ... I'm not an experienced eggnog drinker. I like the shit just fine ... but I only recently started drinking it, because I was always scared to drink something that looked like milk and was called "Eggnog".

...I have a very sensitive stomach coupled with an overactive imagination. Fuck off.

Anyway ... I thought I was going to puke.

I'm sitting in my recliner, holding my stomach like the fear of an alien popping through my skin was a perfectly acceptable fear.

Then the in-laws all started filing in, ready for their bowl of chili that I had been slaving over all day.

I couldn't eat any chili. My tummy felt like I'd wolfed down a can of Crisco after the eggnog.

Don't worry ... the in-laws ate a crock pot full of chili on their own without my help.

Gluttons.

Fucking gluttons.

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I think that's enough for today.

Thank you. You've been a lovely audience. Drive home safely.

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QUESTION OF THE DAY

I'm springing for some plastic surgery for you ... what would you like done?