Beetle Juice and Cards with Mr. and Mrs. Escapeons

THE FOLLOWING PICTURES HAVE GENERALLY DESCRIBED AND PORTRAYED MY NEAR-LIFELONG FRIEND, DONN, THE BLOGGER FORMERLY KNOWN AS HOMO ESCAPEONS.

...And my mischievous relationship with him...

However, the former HE, who has now dumbed downn to Donn, is actually quite a domestic entity in his real life, when he's not over at my place creating havoc.

He has a gorgeous young wife named Alice who gives the best hugs ever and together, they are spectacular parents to their son, who I am fortunate to be able to boast actually calls me Uncle Chris.

Now Donn -- I'm guessing at Alice's request -- is inviting me over all the time, primarily to play a card game called Phase 10.

I usually decline, believing a family should have their together time and, well, because if I go, then I have to see Donn and listen to all the songs he likes to play from the 1960s, like the one I've got on my blog now.

But sometimes, if the work schedule permits and I want to see Alice and their son, I agree to visit and to purposely let Alice or Donn win at Phase 10.

As usual, the visit usually begins with big hugs from Alice and from the Ridman, their son. We play a variety of sports, he and I, while Mr. and Mrs. HE look on, sipping drinks. Often, they'll feed me.

Then it's time for bed for the Ridman and, after that, the card game...which in this case, Donn somehow won, when it seems to me that Alice almost always wins.

But that is not the biggest part of this story.

No, the most surprising thing I witnessed on this night was Donn, one of the biggest nature freaks and animal rights activists in all of Blogdumb, killing an innocent animal.

That's right. Donn, the former Homo Escapeons, would not allow me to pick up a beetle that was scurrying along his kitchen floor so I could let it go outside.

A common black beetle, something like the one above but with mandibles that can give a purported saviour like me a bite, ended up under the gigantic foot of the Dastardly Donn.

Squished.

Squashed.
Donn's excuse? It was threatening his lovely wife. He will tell you it was more like this...

I'm just glad the young, impressionable son of Mr. HE was already in bed and not around to see this wanton, blatant destruction of a member of the animal kingdom.

Today, almost certainly, HE (I mean, Donn) will be outside on Father's Day, setting poison traps for the mice, raccoons, rabbits, squirrels and forest tent caterpillars he will whine are leaving poop in his yard.

I've already reported him to PETA, so don't bother.

Unsolicited Invitations

I figured, with my son spending last weekend with me, that I, unsolicited by him, would buy some succulent ribs and try to cook them up all nice for him.

So that's what I did. But then, a problem. How the hell do I cook these things? I haven't barbecued in years.

I've never prepped a meal like this from start to finish, I always just threw stuff on the Barbie.

No more.

So I searched the WWW and came up with a recipe.

Ugh. I hate the boiling part when all that fat rises to the top. Of course I drained it, and then on to the sauce...

Well, there's the finished product. He didn't really like the sauce. It took me all afternoon, basically, but what can I say?

He and I both like more crispy stuff. The ribs were moist, tender and coming off the bone.

OK, so I was guilty of that unsolicited invitation, setting myself up for rejection.

But here's another one, sent to my work email, from bikinitube.com or something or other. I did not join.

I was also asked to become the speechwriter/communications manager for the following, but I refused.

And then, of course, Jib Jab emailed me their latest zany videos, this time for Father's Day. For the first time in several years, I will have this Father's Day off and will not have to cover the Manitoba Marathon.

I would send one of these to my dad, but he doesn't have a computer. They ARE super funny.

That's all the recent unsolicited invitations I've received, although that could change. In the meantime, I need to start figuring out what I'm doing with my two weeks' vacation in August.

I know I won't be visiting bikinitube.com, although the bikini part sounds quite appealing.

Big Brown Bullshit, bacon and Barack

AND, THEY'RE OFF!

Big Brown, a 1-4 super hyped super favourite to win horse-racing's triple crown, went to the post at the Belmont Stakes Saturday, just as I was making my son his favourite meal: egg and bacon muffins.

Because of the mass media's super need to hype the crap out of absolutely everything, analysing this animal's breeding stock and so many other almost human traits, well, you KNEW there was no way that this horse, Big Brown, was NOT going to win, right?

It was a Big Bag of Big Brown Wind, as it turns out. But I didn't know that at the time.

Because of the unbelievable hype leading up to the Belmont, I felt like if I had the chance, I should try to watch the race.

But given that I had just finished my work for the day, I asked my son what he wanted to eat. He hasn't felt good this weekend and hasn't eaten a lot. So he asked for one of his faves, the bacon, egg and cheese muffins.

The only problem was, they decided to start the Belmont in New York just as I was making my son's meal. And I have a tendency to overcook eggs. Doh! NOW what do I do?

Before I could consider the options I didn't have, I heard that famous call:

AND THEY'RE OFF!

"Big Brown is in the first group of horses as they round the first turn..." -- I could hear the commentator say this, so I ran into the living room to see it.

But there was something else calling me too...I had to turn my son's eggs over, so back into the kitchen I ran!

Over went the eggs and I turned down the heat while galloping to the toaster. In there went the muffins. Out of the fridge came the cheese slices. Back into the living room I scurried.

They're in the back-stretch...Big Brown is still in contention, but the super equine wasn't being super dominant.

He wasn't living up to all those ridiculous expectations the entire horse-racing world had blathered on about for weeks. As they're heading for the final turn, he's losing ground.

But back to those eggs.

As Big Brown falls to last in the field and all those millions of dollars are lost or gained in a "sport" that's about nothing other than gambling on animals that are pumped up with drugs, my eggs are over, easy.

The muffins are toasted. I slip the eggs on top of them, then the cheese, then the bacon, then the top slice of muffin.

In the background, I can hear the huge crowd at Belmont watching Big Brown become a Big Bust, finishing dead last, uncontrolled by all the false expectations placed upon him by the money establishment.

Supposedly, had he won, he'd be worth $100 million as a stud, his bloodlines to be passed on and millionaires' hopes and bank accounts raised over generations in what is called, appropriately, the Sport of Kings.

It's unlikely Big Brown will become just another racehorse sent to slaughter. But neither is he likely to ever command $100 million as a semen-producing pot of gold for his owners.

This whole episode brought to mind another recent horse-race, incredibly over-hyped and hampered by poisoned people on either side.

The dark horse (no pun intended), predictably won that race too.

But for all this discussion about pre-race favourites and ridiculous expectations, all my son cared about on Saturday was his two bacon-egg muffins.

He got 'em, and the eggs weren't overcooked.

Some races are just more important than others. And they're free.

Getting to the Bottom of Things

THIS IS NOT JUST ANOTHER TITS AND ASS POST.

Yes, that's a breast mug on top.

And yes, that's my bare butt on the bottom, so to speak.

Butt I'm writing about them both today because they relate to some other recent developments, all of which have to do with a devastating disease that almost everyone has been touched by.

CANCER.

Here are some pages from today's edition of the newspaper I write for.

Yes, our edition today is called the Pink Paper. You're not seeing a mistake involving red ink or pink dye. To our knowledge, we're the first paper anywhere to do something like this.

It's a full edition printed in pink, in honour of the fight against breast cancer. Basically, every second page of the paper tells a story related to breast cancer and the people who have fought it.

Ten cents out of each paper sold will go to the fight against breast cancer. With a total paid circulation of around 140,000, not including separate sales on the street or in boxes, that's a fair bit of coin.

One of my sisters (below) has fought this disease and won. She went through a long battle, but she's still with us, and much more.

I have come to admire her strength and will and positivity immensely. I doubt I could have emerged the way she has from this fight, or waged it with the courage she did.

She's the one who gave me that breast mug at the top.

An online poll today on our paper's website asked readers: "Have you or anyone you know had breast cancer?" Of 1,618 votes cast as of this writing, 87 per cent said yes; 13 per cent said no.

That's astounding.

And what does this have to do with my butt? Well, only this. There's a family history of colon cancer, you see. Several of my relatives have died of it; some of my others, including siblings, have encountered hints of it.

I've always been super healthy. But plumbing-wise, there have been a few, shall we say, "incidences of irregularity" that have caught my attention and have made me believe I'm NOT invulnerable.

So I'm getting tests done. And, gulp, I will need to get a procedure done called a colonoscopy. Google it.

Suffice to say while I'm confident and feel strong, my lifelong feeling of immortality is, ahem, being flushed down the toilet.

While I don't want to make of this any more than it is compared with the real-life battle my sister and so many others have waged, it's the ordinary, lovely souls like her who should be our real heroes.

We get so wrapped up in the latest actor, sports personality or famous trainwreck who's trying to dry out in the Betty Ford Clinic or whatever, the Brittney Spears and their ilk...the total fuck-ups who, for some reason, get all the attention.




We follow losers on TV shows like Celebrity Rehab or whatever it's called. Like Sly Stallone's former gal, Brigitte Nielsen. Or Scott Baio and that mental, mindless midget with him in the pic above.




We watch them crash and burn every week all in the name of ratings, retro-retread child stars and the like, embarrassing themselves on global TV with their boob jobs and liposuction and lip jobs and facelifts.

All the while, the truly REAL people on the planet who weren't born with silver spoons in their mouths or spectacular looks are surviving the way we were meant to survive or, sometimes, die, on our will and pure chance.

But that's boring.

Our media-frenzied world and pop culture-driven mass drivel-induced machine just keeps grinding out the pap, while the great masses struggle every day just to survive as totally inept governments look on.

It's all so absurd. But it's all those real-life struggles that still make the world go round, and deep down, I think anyone with a brain and conscience and depth knows that and values it and holds it close.

Now, pardon me while I go watch the latest on Scott Baio and his Chachi life.