Page 128: Kim's Birthday Goes to Pot (Pie)

My sister Kim and I grew up in the rolling, sun-drenched hills of Brown County, the true center of Texas, home of the famous Underwood's Barbeque and Mama Gomez's Tex-Mex -- both the best in the Lone Star State.

Except Underwood's and Mez's weren't on our menu very often -- when I babysat my sister during the summer while my parents worked, I fried eggs and sausage for breakfast, and whipped up "pickled loaf" sandwiches for lunch. Or sometimes, Banquet Pot Pies. You ever had a Banquet Pot Pie? You shouldn't. No, really, you shouldn't.

They seemed delicious back in the day; Chicken, Beef, or Turkey niblets in a "sauce" and splattered into a pastry shell. I liked them all, but Kim insisted on only Chicken Pot Pie, which made absolutely no sense. It would sort of like Jethro Bodine saying, "Granny, I likes them possum gizzards, but them possum giblets -- shooo-weeey!" Makes no sense a'tall.

It was a summer day in 1975, give or take a year. We were out of pickled loaf and Kraft American slices, so sandwiches for lunch were out. The freezer contained exactly two… Beef… pot pies. She'll never notice, I thought. I cooked both to golden brown perfection, serving them up nonchalantly to the table. Kim took one look and shuddered. "This is BEEF!" she moaned. I was eleven or twelve, in charge, and in no mood for nonsense.

"Eat it -- it's great."

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting there staring at it. "Eat it!" I insisted. "You aren't getting up from the table until you do!" Thirty minutes later she was still sitting there while I watched TV. I heard a rustling noise, and turned to see what it was. The little imp had reached around the corner and snuck the phone out of the living room into the kitchen, attempting to call our mother at work. "Nope, no appeals to the warden today," I said, mashing down the hook buttons.

Another fifteen minutes passed. "Kim, just eat it -- it's no big deal," I pleaded, exasperated. She scooped a pea sized amount onto her spoon, timidly placing the tip of the spoon in her mouth, placing at least 3 molecules of beef pot pie sauce on her tongue. There was a pause that seemed like an eternity, and then her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body contorted, and she made a hideous, gurgling "KAWWWWWWWWYCCCCHHH" sound as she forced "the mother of all gags." She looked up at me as if to say, "well, happy now?" The Beef Pot Pie, minus a tiny pea-sized scoop, ended up in the trash.

Of course, Kim has never forgotten this story and all my kids have heard it. Kim later grew up and became a school teacher, married a great guy, and has a happy life living in the country near Brownwood.

She turned 39 on October the 9th, and she and my parents came down to visit. "Kim, I slaved away on your birthday cake for hours," I groaned. "You better eat it."


"I will! I promise. I'll have some tonight and some in the morning, too."

Mwwwwaaaa haaa haaa. Right into my clutches. "In the morning too? You promise?"

She promised.

A video speaks 10,000 words.

Page 127: Do You Have a 10a BlahBlah Today?

Disclaimer: although krs never discusses his occupation in this venue, he is lucky enough to work in a company where meetings are usually actually effective. But it seems like meetings are springing up in every aspect of life…

I've become convinced that we have met the enemy, and the enemy is meetings.

Some talk because they can. Some talk when they just shouldn’t. Some just talk and talk and talk. And some who probably should talk just sit and listen. They're multiplying like rabbits. "Can you make the 10a meeting?" she asked.

"Well, I would, but my 9a will go into 10a, and I already have two other 10a's to attend," I explained.

"So you're coming?"

"Oh, yes. I'll sit in your meeting, webcam into another, and blabber on my cellphone for the other one."

"Sounds great!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling like lit diamonds. "Another meeeeeting," she thought dreamily.

I actually think people are being paid by the meeting -- and some are convinced they are being paid by the word. And in practically every meeting, those someones are breaking the cash register, giving themselves raises and enormous bonuses as they let themselves go into thousands and thousands of bonus words.

Yes, sometimes meetings are great. But can we be honest? We really should. Often, they are Let's-Talk-Our-Heads-Into-Mushpot-athons.

Father, I know. I should have more patience. I made the motion on Facebook that meetings be renamed "Blah Blahs." It was immediately seconded, thirded, fourthed, and so on. Motion carried. Unanimously.

"Do you have a 10a Blah Blah today?"

Page 126: Wicked!

"Oh, Clarice, your problem is you need to get more fun out of life." -Dr. Lector, The Silence of the Lambs

WARNING: This blog contains attempted humor that some people may find offensive. If you have a delicate constitution, please click over to these pictures of stuffed teddy bears.

Okay, now that we've gotten rid of the sourpusses, we can get on with it. I can't help that I have an extremely wicked sense of humor -- God made me this way. Ironic that God could create such wickedness, isn't it? But I suppose "that's just the way He rolls," proving that there must be a cosmic humor of divine proportions.

Ever since I was a tadpole, inappropriate and over-the-line-humor have left me in stitches. And nothing delights the wicked more, of course, than spreading wickedness. Getting an entire group laughing at something rather wrong has unnatural appeal to me. It's sort of like the endorphin high runners get, but with a lot more maniacal glee and explosive laughter.

I have only laughed to the point of death once in my life, and it happened during my college years at the beautiful mountain filled Baptist encampment of Glorieta, New Mexico. We were the featured band there, and one late night, giddy from all our performances, my pal Mark and I were sitting on the front porch of our bunkhouse at 4a. (That's Mark on the left, along with my old roommate Mike, on board our tour bus.) We were talking into the wee hours about the very serious matters of life, death, philosophy, and theology. Mark is gold, one of the best guys you could ever meet, and also pretty seriously minded -- the perfect guy to sit around with under the stars and talk about the Universe. And then out of the blue, Mark said, "Do you know what they call a herd of masturbating cattle?" I looked at him, perplexed. "Beef Stroganoff!" he asserted. Did Mark just say that? I was instantly in stitches, riotous laughter that turned into a roaring fit that started to hurt some ten minutes later, when I really, really thought I needed an ambulance and ended up literally ROTFLOL, Rolling On The Floor, Laughing Out Loud. In pain. I have never laughed so hard in my life.

Which brings us, Gentle Browsers, to the delicate topic of "funeral humor."

Oh, it's so wrong, but yes, funerals are sort of Prime Time for the humor-twisted. (Hey, if people aren't laughing during my funeral, I've clearly failed at life.) A funeral is the perfect time to get tickled, for all the wrong reasons. Mom Bess and my Ohio sisters were headed into a funeral a few years ago, and since they have my same "Bad Gene" humor, I knew I could get them in a precariously giggly state right before it started. I lobbed my call in as they walked up the church sidewalk. "Mom! Mom, put me on speaker. I want to read you guys something. It's very important! Okay, Mr. Google helped me find this... THE list of the Top Things NOT To Do at a Funeral. Are you listening? Do NOT do these things during the service…"

1. Stand up in the middle of the service and announce that Grandpa wants an air conditioner down there.
2. Walk around telling people that you've seen the will and they're not in it.
3. Strike up a conversation with the older people attending the service, and at one point of the conversation say in a loud, raspy voice "You're NEEEEXXXTTT!"
4. When no one's looking, slip plastic vampire-teeth into the mouth of the deceased.
5. Tie cans behind the hearse and shoe polish "JUST DIED!" on the back window.
6. Walk into service and say, loudly, "what's that SMELL?"
7. Tell the undertaker that your pooch just died and ask if he can sneak him into the coffin.
8. Ask if anyone wants to see the old "saw the casket in half" trick.
9. Wear an “I’m with stupid" t-shirt, especially if you’re a pallbearer.
10. Loudly rebut the claims of the eulogists… "Lucy cared about everyone…" "NO she didn't!"
11. Put super-glue on the lips of the deceased right before the widow's final kiss.
12. Tie a fishing line to a five dollar bill, and see who's really mourning and who just wants to be five bucks richer.

By the time I got to "slip vampire teeth," I could barely talk amidst peals of laughter, and the giggles on the other end of the phone told me my mission was accomplished. I was wickedly pleased. "My work here is done. Please give my respects to Martin's family. Toodles!"

An hour later, my phone rang. It was Jennifer. "I hope you're happy, Mr. Smart Aleck. Mom was shaking during the entire service, tears down her face, and everybody thought she was crying, but she was holding in laughing herself silly. And every time somebody stood up to say something nice about Martin, Tracie would slip me a look and shake her head 'uh uh.' I thought Mom was going to lose it. "

"Then," Tracie interrupted, "Jennifer held up the entire car procession to the cemetery when she had a Pee Emergency 2 minutes before we left the church -- and our car was the first in line. The entire procession had to sit there waiting on her to get back. She had the car keys or we would have left her. Awful!"

"You all are terrible," Mom intoned. "The only good thing I can say about all this is that Martin would have thought all of this was very, very funny. In fact, I think it's safe to say...he probably would have died laughing...!"

Page 125: The Power of "I Can"

I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.
- Jesus of Nazareth

I can see clearly now; the rain is gone.
- Johnny Nash



This story may not make sense to you; it may in fact invite ridicule. I know. But the events related here are 100% true...

Facts are not as powerful as faith. I know people who believe sheer out non-factual absurdities, but believe them strongly to their toes because they are sure they are right. Such confident faith, right or wrong, has power -- amazing, miraculous, out-of-the-ordinary-possibilities type of power.

As a child, I had a serious eyesight problem in my left eye. I was in the 1st grade when I realized almost everything was dim and blurry. I got my first pair of early 70's horn-rims in 1972 -- with bifocals, no less. The vision in my left eye was 20/400.

By the time I was a freshman in High School, I was utterly sick of glasses. I was overweight and my "stylish" metal frames made me look bookish. Through shear force of will, I lost 50 pounds, did a trendy middle part-of-my-hair, and then…

I stopped wearing glasses. I simply put them down. I didn't like them. And I was sure that I didn't need them. The Optometrist in 1978 disagreed -- he prescribed a new pair, yes, still with bifocals. Poppycock, I thought. I don't want them and I'm not going to wear them. I'll force myself to see better.

On my driver's test in 1979 when I turned 16, I passed the eye test with nary a batted eyebrow. When my eyes were tested again in 1981 for college, I tested at 20/25 in both eyes. My mother had given up by then on asking me to wear my glasses, and suddenly I had proof definitive in my hands I didn't need them anymore. How could this be, my mother asked. "My eyes are fine because I forced them to be fine," I replied. When pressed for a better explanation -- one that made sense -- I had none. I should have thought of Matthew 17:20.

That was a long time ago. A year ago, I realized my close-in vision had become dismal. I struggled to read the paper. I tried reading glasses (1.50) and was amazed at the clarity and improvement. Soon, there were 6 pairs of reading glasses in my house -- one everywhere I possibly sit and read -- and a pair in my car, along with a pair at work. Yes, that's 8 total, but "that's just the way I roll."

I was catching up with my old friend Jerry Sheridan in Philadelphia a few weeks ago, and the subject of reading glasses came up. Jerry mentioned that he didn't wear them because, he knew once he started, he would be hooked for life.

Somewhere in the back of my head, there was a distant "ding." And I put my reading glasses down. In the middle of our Philadelphia trip.

I reviewed a contract today that I couldn't get into focus a couple of months ago. I now read the paper, including the small print comics, with nary a problem by 60 watt lamp light. I haven't had a pair of reading glasses on since August 9. You have to understand, my eyes are fine.

Because I very strongly believe my eyes are fine, so much as to will it so. Oh, it wasn't magic. I told my eyes they were going to function, I picked up the paper, and I forced the ink into focus. Force became ease within a couple of days. And such is the power of "I Can" -- it scales mountains, by the power of sheer force.

Move that mountain. You can do it.

Page 124: Flaming Dr. Peppers from Hell

Click here for Page 124

Page 123: A Romper Room with Wings

Southwest Airlines -- known affectionately as "Southwurst" -- is lovable for one big reason, their fares. After that, the list of Things To Love runs amazingly short -- the skies darken, the Dracula theme music swells, and the Unhappy List unfolds a hundred yards long.

I grew up on a ranch, so I'm really fine with the boarding process, which greatly resembles a cattle chute operation -- line up by ear tag, and then stampede for a place in the trailer. HAWWWWWWW cattle! HAWWWW!

We were returning from our Philly/New York vacation, and had a lovely 2 hour delay on the tarmac while The Three Stooges fiddled with a defective stall indicator. "Hey, what's the big idea?" Chief Engineer Moe asked. "Give me that wrench!"

"But I'm busy finishing me Brew!" Second Engineer Curly replied, sipping an sudsy evilish-looking dark ale. "Three more of these babies, and Woo Woo Woo!!!" Of course, he was immediately conked on the head with the wrench, and so it went for a couple of hours. But soon we were duct-taped up and ready to rattle into the sky, shaking like a '73 Plymouth.

Amazingly, repair crew antics weren't the lowlight of the trip; it was the plane full of shrieking 2 year olds. Now, we've all had two year olds on a plane before, but like me, you've always gone out of your way to keep the little dears entertained and quiet as a courtesy to the other passengers…right? Well, those parents didn't get on this flight. Toddler Ted in front of us had a milk and jelly bib from breakfast (his shirt) and hair that hadn't been cut or combed since his christening two years prior. He had the amazing ability to shriek like a banshee for the entire duration of the trip, absolutely delighting his parents. They honestly thought it was the cutest thing since Cabbage Patch Kids, and the idea that it might be a nuisance never crossed their tiny, unevolved mollusk brains. "Look at our little Junior! EVERYBODY can hear him shriek! Isn't that CUTE?"

Not to be outdone, the Gruesome Twosome in the row behind us quickly brought the competition up a notch. "LOOK ATT DAT MAWMMY!" Number one yelled, some fifty three times. Mawmmy apparently didn't have the strength to respond. "MAWWWWMMY! LOOK DATT!!!" Number Two wasn't pleased. "WAAAAAAAAAAH," he squalled. I mean, why should Number One get the entire airwaves to himself?

But the Olympic Champion was the waif in the aisle across and up one. I've flown over a million miles and I've never seen anything like it. This little lamb, with a dirty mop for hair and an unnerving scream for a voicebox, did the most amazing thing. He stood on the tray table for half the trip, jumping up and down on it like it was a trampoline, and then leaping over the seat into the arms of his adoring mother in the next row. The poor lady in the row with Daddy and the Miracle Jumper looked suicidal. She exchanged several glances with me. "It's okay," I whispered to her. "You weren't using your sanity anyway, were you?"

I forgot to mention the opera. To complete this perfect Quadfecta, the gentleman in front of us had two daughters who started singing, in perfect unison, "Old Macdonald Had a Farm" for the entire take-off and ascent. They were able to cover cows, sheep, ducks, geese, horses, pigs, and goats before we even rumbled down the runway. Curiously, they never mentioned the jackass on their farm (ahem -- the father), who was seated right next to them but uttered nary a word during the entire aria.

Within 30 minutes, I had gnawed off all my fingernails into stumps. Keaton and Kellen sat like perfect gentlemen, but took it all in with amazement.

"It's simple, boys," I explained. "What we need here is a royal, first class spanking -- I'm talking a rear end rump whuppin' -- for each and every one of these parents."

Truly, it was a romper room with wings.

When I got home, I put an extra $20 in the Private Jet fund. Baby steps, you know...

Page 122: "That's Hot!"

Howdy, new neighbors! Yeah, we're from a few houses down. Congrats on moving into the neighborhood and we'd like to give you a big rousing WELCOME to Texas. Glad you're here. Say, is your icemaker hooked up and running back there? It is? Good. NOW EMPTY YOUR ICE BUCKET into this here ice chest, real nice and slow like, and nobody will get hurt. Yes, this is a real BB gun. Have you ever spent a weekend picking shiny copper BB's out of your rear end? No? Oh, this would be a terrible time to find out what it's like. Enough small talk. Trigger finger is so sweaty, it could go slip-n-slide on this boomstick any second. YOUR ICE. NOW! YES, THROW IN THOSE FROZEN PEAS, TOO. Oh, and welcome to the cul-de-sac!

The events in the preceding story are fictional. Well, for the moment. But heat has a way of making people sweat, and when people sweat, they get angry. And when they get angry, bad things happen. It's gonna turn ugly, folks. If this "high pressure zone" and 106 degree temps continue, even our saintly grandmothers are going to go vigilante for some refrigerated air and a bucket of ice cubes.

I was sitting in the Batcave, drenched with sweat. I called down to Engineering. "Nunzilla, this is the bridge! Set A/C to MAX! We need cold air in 3 minutes or we're all dead!"

"That's all I can give ya', Capt'n!" Nunzilla yelled. "The A/C can't take much more o' this!"

Lord. That's what I get for having an Irish nun for the head of engineering. I should have sprung for a full blooded Scotsman. Why, Scotty could have produced cold air with a kleenex, a transistor, and a fingernail clipping. What do I have? Three A/C units gasping for air like Rush Limbaugh on a mountain bike. I was beside myself. "Nun! Jettison the warp core or something. Just frikkin' figure it OUT. Kirk out!"

Through the heat and on a completely unrelated note, my mind vaguely recalls my favorite Scotsman joke -- of course, Scottish jokes always involve the renowned cheapness, frugality, and drinking of the Scots.

A tipsy Scotsman was in the outhouse when he accidentally dropped a dollar into the loo. "Oh dere," Angus said. "It aren't worth a wee dollar to go ahfter it!" So he pulled out a ten and threw it in. "But it's cert'ly worth goin' ahfter eleven dawlarhs!"

Yes, folks, it's hot. Clearly, The Landlord is determined to keep the thermostat set to INFERNO IN JUNE for yet another week over Texas. If it keeps up, I suggest we all move to the Wal*Mart, right over near the dairy aisle... there is always a February breeze blowing over the milk and cheeses.

How hot is it? Mrs. Kathryn reports that the eggs at the grocery store can only be bought pre-poached now.

It's so hot that my elderly Great Aunty Murle reports she saw the squirrel in her backyard "panting and fanning his nuts, trying to keep 'em cool..."

"Now, that's hot!"

Page 121: Mind Tricks

Our minds -- so powerful, so full of possibilities. And occasionally, so misleading. Open minds are the best minds, because sometimes you have to take a really close look to really understand what is going on...

No, nothing is actually moving in the picture; it's an illusion. Enjoy!

Page 120: Got Squabbles?

"Daddy, name something you really do not like," Kristin said.

"I don't like it when people don't get along," I instantly replied. Anyone who has worked with or for me knows that I insist that people get along. I especially dislike friend and family squabbles. I hate it when friends bicker or talk behind each other's backs. I don't do that. If you're my friend, I have your back; I don't talk behind it. Period.

Family squabbles. Maddening, but every family has them. It seems like the normal irritants are always (1) old sibling rivalries and (2) new sibling-in-law rivalries, where the spouse of a sibling isn't liked by some in the core family. In my own family, there is a ridiculous situation that has gone on for over 50 years where an aunt, my dad's youngest sister, does not like my mother. It started in the 1950's -- a comment my mother made when she was 16 or 17 and my aunt was 13 -- became a tiny old wound that never healed. It turned into a bigger and bigger wound, and then yielded deep scars that abscessed over the decades. Later, my aunt assembled and maintained a book documenting my mother's "transgressions" over the years. Obviously not a healthy thing, but to my aunt, a major life issue.

In my youth, this aunt and her husband were golden and special to me. I spent a great deal of time with them and we had many fun adventures. My uncle helped me run the concession stand for the men's baseball league. I took trips with them. They let me drive their car, a zesty 1973 Ford Maverick, all around the country backroads at the age of 12. I never intended to get involved in "the squabble."

My family situation is complex. There is the family I grew up with in the Central Texas ranchlands, and the other family I never knew up in Canton, Ohio. After finding the Ohio clan, there was a period of years where, for good reasons, I didn't want my parents to know. Oh, I planned to tell them, when the time was right. But some years later, this uncle took it upon himself to tell my parents about the Ohio family, and I am certain that his motives were not pure. He intended hurt and injury in the telling.

When I discovered this betrayal, I wasn't angry. I have never used this word in this forum nor will I ever likely again, but I will use it now, and I also invoked it when discussing my uncle with my parents shortly afterward. No, I wasn't angry. I was fucking furious. My uncle had no right to tell my parents anything, and to this day he probably doesn't know how lucky he was that I lived 1300 miles away in Philadelphia at the time. With steam billowing out of my ears, I called my parents to assure them that I loved them as much as always and just didn't want to hurt their feelings in regard to the Ohio family.

I've studied the teachings of Jesus, Zen, New Thought, and psychology far too long to carry around anger. It's destructive -- so, I dealt with the anger toward this uncle and let it go. But in the process, both this aunt and uncle died to me. Not physically, but to me, it was as if they were dead. I didn't feel any anger toward them. I felt nothing toward them, and I resolved in my mind that if I didn't see them again in this lifetime, that was fine with me. I should mention that their two sons, Rody & Cousin Ricky, are like brothers to me and we've never (and will never) speak a cross word. We didn't discuss this matter.

Ten years passed.

At Cousin Ricky's wedding reception a few weeks ago, this aunt and uncle were there. They looked very aged to me. I took a deep breath and spoke to both of them. Later that evening, I reflected on the many old memories of old good times and their kindness in my youth. The irony was not lost to me that even though they really do not like my parents, they still were always quite fantastic to me.

So I wasn't harboring anger, but the net effect was I got caught up in the whole thing as well. The thing I dislike the most: a squabble. Perhaps true forgiveness isn't a mechanical matter, and doesn't really happen until you are willing to be at a point where you were before the transgression.

As I write, my grandmother Mama is in the hospital with recurring blackouts, and I sent Cousin Ricky a message to let him know. We exchanged a few messages. "I think we should all go to Brownwood and be together for Christmas again," Ricky said. "For Mama. It's time."

Hmmm. A part of me is really quite fine never having a "Brownwood Big Family Christmas" ever again. It was my favorite time of year as a child, but now, seeing people gathered together with canyon sized wounds and bad opinions of each other, it seems to have lost its luster. But Ricky makes a great point. "For Mama." Perhaps the gift to an 88 year woman of her drifted factions together once again would be a very nice thing. Oh, everyone will be civil -- this is not a bunch that wears feelings on sleeves. Yes, Ricky, a bigger part of me knows that you are absolutely right. A gift for Mama. But could it be -- a gift for me as well?

Looks like it will be a white Christmas in Brownwood this year. And of course, I'll give my aunt and uncle a big hug and it will be good old times once again… and as in old times, when we pack up to leave and I throw out "Love You Guys!" as I've always done, once again, I'll mean it.

Page 119: Ninety Years Old and Still Going...

While in Vegas on a business meeting this week (yes, Vegas twice in a couple months), had the privilege of hearing Dr. Rick Rigsby, motivational speaker, uncommon minister, explosion of energy, funny man, & story teller extraordinaire. His "Lessons from a Third Grade Dropout" -- lessons from his father -- are moving. But his sense of humor is right up my alley... let's tune in to his story:

I was talking to Mr. Robert Jenkins, a 92 year old man in my neighborhood I know who is the picture of absolute health. This man has the stamina of a 40 year old! Stands tall, rosy cheeks, and he jogs. One day I took him aside, and I said, "Mr. Jenkins, there is something I must ask, and you must share, because we young-uns have to know the truth. When you've lived a fine and full life for a long 90 years, you gotta tell us -- c'mon Mr. Jenkins, share -- is it BOXERS or BRIEFS at 90 years of age?

And Mr. Jenkins looked at me, and he said, "Boxers or Briefs? Dr. Rick -- DEPENDS!"

Page 118: Hello, Google Blogger

Well, after 116 pages of doing my own blog web pages, I've officially moved over to "Google Blogger." Eric Evans and Donna Posey convinced me... the benefits are full text searching capability along with automated RSS feeds -- what is RSS, you say? Silly wabbit, it's the 21st century. Time to get widdit. RSS Readers allow you to easily view all the blogs, stories, and news you like in one convenient browser window. Personally, I like Google Reader (Google it to set it up). But the upside is that your Reader automatically knows when your favorite sources have new material, and they display it for you...

Page 117: Snow Daze in Vegas

WARNING TO MY OLD BAPTIST PALS: this Vegas story includes lots of gratuitous drinking, gambling, cussing, and probably some dancing in there somewhere. (I have to give them this warning so that they rush down directly to the good stuff.) My pastor buddy Dr. Stephen J. Lucas once told this story: "the little lady walked up to her minister and said, 'Preacher, can Baptists dance?' to which he answered, 'To tell you the truth, ma'am -- some can, and some can't…'"

In late April, Airman, Rich, and I did a jaunt to Vegas -- where our other neighborhood buddies were, who knows -- but as you probably realize, Vegas to men is like catnip to Mr. Bigglesworth. It makes us a lil' cuuuuh-razy. One minute we're calm as nitroglycerin filled water balloons, and the next thing you know, we're slobbery, pie-eyed savages intent on overeating and losing our hard-earned money. But hey -- when your ticket gets punched on the Silly Train, it's time to hop on board.

Once we landed, we could not wait to get to the tables. We waited in line, we tapped our feet impatiently, we rolled our eyes, but finally, there we were. "SHOW ME THE… BUFFET!" we yelled, in our best Cuba Gooding Junior voice. Oh boy, did we play the tables big. "HIT ME AGAIN!" Rich yelled at the Prime Rib station. The hatted attendant spun his tongs and yet another giant rib landed on Rich's plate. "Woooo HOOOOOO!" I doubled down at the Sushi Table, and Airman tried a little of everything, or should I say a lot of everything, and he reportedly scored big with a Royal Flush immediately afterward.

Airman and I looked for a likker store (we Texans spell it that way and pronounce it that way, thank you very much) when we got to town, in search of some fine spirits for our suite. We found a glitzy store right by the Mandalay Bay, and when we walked in, I heard a THUMP as Airman hit the floor in a dead faint. "The prices here," he moaned. I revived him waving a $20 under his nose. But he was right. Nobody has ever been more proud of their bottles of hootch; the joint was a royal rip-off. So twenty minutes later we found ourselves in a store called "Vann's," the Scariest Place I've Ever Shopped. I was holding onto my teeth for dear life, because we were the only people in the place that had any, and I didn't like the looks we were getting. "Airman, hide your teeth!" I hissed. "Suck in your lips and pretend your gums are rotten and hurting! We need to fit in." We were shocked that they did NOT have the fine bourbon Richard was hoping for, but they did have plenty of other, much less expensive choices on the "Skid Row Aisle." And ever the gent and lady's man, Airman was kind enough to help a lady pushing around her rusty oxygen machine reach a carton of cigarettes off the top shelf.

I'm going to skip the part about our accommodations, but we had five flat panel TV's in our 1500 square feet X3 suite, and that's no joke. It was like the suite in Rain Man, except for the smarts and the winnings. But we only paid peanuts due to the economic meltdown there.

We went to the mountains one day, which I highly recommend. It's 45 minutes to the northwest, and it's beautiful. And yes, there was SNOW -- SNOW in Las Vegas a mere 25 miles away. As a bonus, we got to meet Billy the Serial Murderer Park Attendant. Well, that was our guess. He was a young guy, and the crazed, scary grin on his face when we paid to get into the hike park suggested that his favorite hobby was "Crystal Meth." We talked to him for a few minutes. "These trees are old!" he asserted, grinning. "They're older than you. Some of them are even older than me!" Right, Billy. Right. Aaron pointed out that the real park attendant was probably laying on the floor of the little hut, bound and gagged. Billy leered at us, his Meth teeth a nice pale shade of Park Foliage Green (how ironic). Well. Been fun. Time to run, for our lives.


The evil plot was hatched on Tuesday night. "Airman, let's get Rich on top of the Stratosphere, have a few drinks, and talk him in one of those rides on top of the thing." If you've never heard of it, the Stratosphere is the 1100 foot tower that reaches into the heavens, and on top -- the very top -- are 3 thrill rides that are not for the faint of heart. I've been on the one that shoots you up the tower, pictured here -- keep in mind YOU ARE ON TOP OF AN 1100 FOOT BUILDING, and they shoot you another 200 feet into the air... but they have new rides that look even more terrifying.

Long story short, the plan came off, and suddenly we found ourselves strapped into dinky seats on a giant contraption 1100 feet in the air called the "INSANITY," with a mechanical arm moving us off the side of the tower dangling in the air, and spinning us like crazy.

I'll be honest -- my legs were shaking and I could barely open my eyes. Airman was just laughing. And I think the word to best describe Richard was "terrified." Pretty sure he had a poopy diaper. Luckily, he didn't kill us. Whew. Billy, Insanity, and Rich's potential Revenge. Three brushes with certain death in the first 2 days...

We did other things. I remember some gambling, and I better remember the old proverb "Gambling is a sport for people who are BAD at MATH." I usually just play a little at the slots and Blackjack, but Rich is a Super-Gambler. He knows all the games. "Hey, can you teach us how to play craps?" I asked. Rich assured us it was a piece of cake. We were down at the table later that evening.

"Now, what you do it, you put money on the 7, but you don't want to shortfall, so keep it in The Zone. If the dice go into the circle, you might get a touchback. I'm going to pick BLACK -- now watch the triangle! WATCH IT!!!" I nodded excitedly, pie-eyed. Right. RIIIGHT!!! I get it! I get it now. I get that I will never, ever understand this damn game, that it involves some sort of alien technology and brain genes I don't have. "Go RED! RED! Move it to 11! Lock transporter onto the thampallulizer! Energize!" Rich barked. Twenties moved on and off the table. Space and time warped a little, and "I think there was a robot." My eyesight got blurry. It had seemed like hours, but in fact, only 6 minutes had transpired. "We're outta here!" Rich said. I asked him how much we won. "I lost $200. I mean, just broke even," Rich replied.

Everybody always "just breaks even" in Vegas. This is code talk for "lost my rumpus."

Well, there is much more to tell, but we'll have to save those stories for the campfire, kids. But it was quite some great daze in Vegas. Next year, we may have to tone down the guys' trip and go somewhere a little less crazy. 'Nawlins, anyone?