Page 135: A Boy and His Robot

Not every 10 year boy has a life-size robot at their disposal like Keaton, but not every boy is growing up in my house. In this case, the DaddyBot --pictured at right -- looks quite a bit like his actual Daddy, except for the robot-like movements and the booming voice that is unmistakable -- the voice of The Robot from Lost in Space.

17 year old Kellen was sitting on Keaton, tickling him senseless, amidst screams and peals of forced, painful laughter. Finally, Keaton was able to yell the magic words. "DaddyBot!"

"DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Save me, DaddyBot!" Keaton howled.

"COMMAND ACCEPTED," DaddyBot boomed. "PROTECT MODE ACTIVATED. DESTROY! DESTROY ATTACKER!!!" And with that, he went into action, grabbing Kellen off Keaton like a ragdoll, pinning him down to the floor, and then robo-tickling him until he was screaming like a little schoolgirl. Except Kellen’s not a little schoolgirl at all (except when he screams like one). Finally, DaddyBot released the hoodlum and he ran for the hills. Keaton lay breathless on the couch.

"DaddyBot, thank you, thank you!"

"YOU ARE WELCOME, KEATON SCOTT."

Yep, it’s swell to be a 10 year old boy with your own personal DaddyBot. Sometimes, however, DaddyBots can malfunction. For example, there Keaton and DaddyBot were in the ginormous pool late at night at Port Royal on the Texas Coast. "The Redneck Riviera," they call it, but it's our coast and our rednecks, and we loves 'em. The beaches are exactly like the beaches in Destin, Florida, except the sand and water are brown and every hotel, motel, and rental house on the beach is a rusted out filthy dump that rents for ridiculous prices. But it's our brown sand, brown water, rusted out dumps, and ridiculous prices, and we loves 'em.

Keaton was cruising around on his dad's back around the pool. Suddenly, the Bad Gene / Mischevious Circuit was activated. "DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Wha?" Keaton asked.

"ATTACK MODE ENGAGED. SCANNING FOR TARGETS… SCANNING FOR TARGETS...!"

"Oh nooooo," Keaton gulped, but DaddyBot's docking clamps held his legs tight -- Keaton wasn't going anywhere, except exactly where DaddyBot wanted him to go. A middle aged lady in a nice dry flowery muumuu was walking along the edge of the pool. "Oh no, no, no," Keaton moaned.

"ATTACK SEQUENCE COMMENCING...DESTROY!" DaddyBot whispered, perched in the water by the side of the pool, gazing in the opposite direction. Just as Granny Flabs passed by, DaddyBot went into quick action, using his robotic cyberarm to summon an ENORMOUS tidal wave of water -- a pool tsunami -- right over the edge and up through the air. DaddyBot was already underwater and traveling at high speed with Keaton in tow by splashdown time, leaving a Muumuu with a Boo Boo and a bewildered woman looking angrily at all the kids in the vicinity.

"SCANNING FOR TARGETS!" DaddyBot repeated, and his onboard sensors locked onto a group of very dry teenage kids sitting at the table by the edge of the pool, oblivious on their very own Planet Yack & Snack.

“No no no no, DaddyBot, NO!!!” Keaton pleaded, giggling. “Cancel attack sequence and power down!”

“COMMAND *NOT* ACCEPTED,” DaddyBot replied. “VOICE COMMAND INTERFACE *OFFLINE*!!!” Approaching the unsuspecting, dry victims, DaddyBot hovered. “ACTIVATING AQUA CANNON,” he intoned, and a gigantic wall of water went hurling over the edge of the pool, bringing April showers but little in the way of May flowers to the entire table. “DADDY VOICE SIMULATION ENABLED,” DadyBot whispered.

The dripping wet table sat, stunned, looking around to see who dunnit.

“Keaton! What have I told you about splashing people? I mean it. Sorry folks, this boy is a real prankster. Now, young man...I think a good old fashioned spankin’ might just be in your future,” and then the drenched, bewildered table stared as the father headed off down the pool, dragging a red-faced Keaton in hysterics along behind him.

Keaton could not stop giggling, a sort of terrified giggle -- what does one do when one’s DaddyBot goes so beserk? “DaddyBot....oh DaddyBot...”

“TO QUOTE A FAMOUS RABBIT... AIN’T I A STINKUH?” DaddyBot quipped. That was when the stern looking woman in the pantsuit came marching into the pool area.“TARGET ACQUIRED!” DaddyBot purred. And Keaton knew it was going to be long, splashy night.

Keaton & Kristin -- picture by "DaddyBot"

Page 134: "Good Times"

In the first century, a Jewish family lived in a small stone house. The time had come to move the wife's elderly parents in, but the husband was vexed. He went to his rabbi. "We will be too crowded. Our house is too small. What should I do, master?"

"You should do the right thing and take in your family," the rabbi advised. "And in helping in this way you will have abundant blessings. Do this and come back in one week."

The father promptly moved in his in-laws, and within a week everyone in the home was miserable. He hurried back to the rabbi. "I followed your advice, teacher, and now I have never known such misery! What have you done to us?"

"Patience, my son," the rabbi replied. "Do you have chickens?" The man nodded. "Do you have sheep?" The man again nodded yes. "And a donkey? Good. Now, you must move your chickens, sheep, and donkey into the house also. Come back to see me in two weeks."

The father was bewildered, but he went back and followed the rabbi's instructions. Two weeks later he returned with disheveled hair, dirty clothes, and a wild look on this face. "Oh teacher," he moaned, "I have followed your advice. I have done everything you said. Now my in-laws have no place to sleep because the chickens are laying eggs in their bed. The goats are baa-ing and butting their heads, and the sheep are breaking things. The animals have made my house a wreck, and it smells worse than a barn!"

The rabbi frowned. He closed his eyes and thought for a long time. Finally he said, “This is what you do. Take the sheep back to the barn. Take the chickens back to their coop, and put your donkey back in its pen. Come back in one month.”

The farmer ran home and did exactly as the rabbi had told him. A month later, he came back to see the rabbi, smiling from ear to ear.

"Oh master! Our home is the most spacious, peaceful, and comfortable in the land. Thank you for your wise advise -- our family is the happiest it has ever been!"

And the rabbi smiled.

With thanks to Rev. Steve Bolen

Page 133: My Wife is HOT!

So it turns out that me, the kid from the blazing hot Texas hills who baked his entire childhood with parents who didn't believe in air conditioning, ended up marrying a beautiful woman who runs only frozen liquid nitrogen in her veins at Absolute Zero. This means that she freezes to death year round, especially in the 100 degree summer when "all that cold air is blowing."

What are the odds?

In contrast, I don't wear a jacket outside unless it's below 26 degrees. I sleep with the windows open in 40 degree weather. My idea of a good thermostat is a thermostat with icicles hanging off it. I need cold air blowing on me 7x24. See the problem?

For Mrs. Kathryn, it's a bit different. She travels around with a jacket in the summer, "in case it's cold in the restaurant/movie theater/mall/car/church/sidewalk/oven/park/anywhere." If there is a breeze, she is shivering like Scooby Doo in the Haunted Mansion. For this past Valentine's Day, I bought her a full-body flannel PajamaGram complete with footies, because she had only spoken the words "I'm Freezing" for weeks when the temperatures here in Austin dipped below 60. She took one look at the plush pink footie pajama suit and loved it! I have a picture of her wearing it, but am unable to post it on account that she might punch my head in like a cheeseball.

We were headed to the restaurant. "Kristin and Keaton, put on your coats!" Kathy insisted.

"But Mom -- it's 90 degrees outside," Kristin protested.

"If you want to catch your death of a cold out there, young lady, you just go right ahead."

Sigh.

"Would you like to sit outside, sir?" the hostess asked.

"Uh -- yes please. I guess. Can you bring me a cold rag, a sack of ice, a sweat bucket and a stack of towels? Yes? Okay, and a propane heater and electric blanket for my wife? Thanks." As luck would have it, a fan was blowing on the patio, trying to keep the patrons comfortable. Kathy gave the fan a horrified look and shot me a look of misery. Perhaps if I ask for an ax and chop off the corners of the table and start a fire, she'll feel better, I thought. And then I can jump over the rail and hit the concrete head first, and then I'll feel better too.

No, no! Do not get the wrong idea. As we approach our 24th wedding anniversary, I would not want you to think that Her Hotness's cold nature ever gets on my nerves. The answer is never, ever, ever. She is, after all, My Sweet Baboo, and when thawed out, an utter delight.

"Is that coooold AIR blowing?" she asked recently at Tres Amigos.

"Yes maam, it is. It's called the 'air conditioning'," the waiter patiently explained. "We use that here in Texas." I barely noticed, too busy fanning myself with the menu in the 80 degree dining room.

We all have these little things we have to work through in our relationships, don't we? Well, luckily for me, it's not too difficult. After all, there is one thing you cannot deny about my wife -- she's HOT! Really.

Page 132, in which krs Finally Makes Scents

Dear God,
Why do I have to live one third of my life in the Twilight Zone? I keep having bizarre experiences no one else seems to have. Or, so they don't say.
Love,
krs
P.S. Is it scary in Heaven? It looks like it might be. I know it's not supposed to be. I'm just sayin'.

There I was at work, minding my own business, working against a deadline that involved El Presidente. I am not speaking of the hotel in Cancun, nor the tequila or much maligned Mr. Obama. I'm talking about someone at work, an amazing man with an air about him that exudes charisma and energy. Not only would you follow him up the hill, you'd shovel dirt to build the hill for him. Meeting at 4p.

I was sitting in the conference room at 3:40p getting ready when I noticed something. Sniff. Something not quiiiite right. Sniff sniff. Wha? That almost smells like… oh my Sweet Dear Lord. Apparently, today I have an air about me too.

I quickly pushed "rewind" on the dusty old BetaMax VCR in my head -- remember Beta? Uh huh, well that is what my brain is like -- and finally backed up the tape to my morning ritual. Shower, yes (oh man I have to get back to the gym), then mid-shower the phone rang, talking to my boss about the 4p meeting, yes and now I'm getting dressed… AND HOUSTON, we have a problem. In my mad rush of the morning in tornado mode, it seems Mr. Mitchum the Unscented Deodorant and I neglected to chat.

I wonder when the last time I forgot was. Seventh grade?

Now I was in a seriously dill pickle, with no time to get to the corner Walgreens. There was only one option, so I dashed down to the men's room, which as luck would have it, was completely empty. Goody, this is no time for explanations and wisecracks from the Peanut Gallery. I extracted 3 large paper towels from the dispenser, 1 for soaping, 1 for rinsing, and 1 for drying. Of course, we use only the finest, cheapest, least expensive, most disgusting, and foamiest hand soap on the planet at work. I squirted mounds of foam onto my "soaping" towel, and sprinted back to the Large Stall, carefully removing my shirt while not spilling superfoam on anything. Seconds later, I was scrubbing away, scrubbing, scrubbing, and that was when I dropped both Mr. Rinse Towel and Mr. Drying Towel on the filthy floor.

If you know anything about me, you know I am a germaphobe of vast proportions. The chances of me picking up and using paper towels off a bathroom stall floor are Slim and None, and Slim's on vacation. It was 3:50p, El Presidente minus ten, and as I heard an entire slew of guys enter the men's room, I realized I was trapped in a handicapped stall with the foamiest pits east of the Pecos. You have no idea how much foam we're talking about.

I laughed. I cried. I cussed. I prayed. I watched foam falling from pits to floor. Some oaf shuffled loudly into the stall next to me, rustling around with his pants. Oh no. I have got to get the hell outta here. But how?

Seconds later, like a trapped animal, I was clawing at the toilet paper dispenser, rolling it like a rabid hamster on a turbo wheel. I was a TP-to-pit wiping machine, bionic-like, and within a mere 2 minutes, I had wiped off at least ten percent of the foam.

The Betamax tape goes blank at this point, but somehow somewhere, I suppose with the help of my Guardian Angel and possibly all his Angel buddies, at precisely 4p I was sitting back in the conference room to greet El Presidente, and there was only the faintest scent of handsoapy antiseptic in the air. Fully de-foamed through angelic intervention, I smelled cleaner than a whistle. The meeting went swimmingly, and halfway through it, El Presidente actually uttered these exact words, which gave me the inspiration for this blog.

"krs, you make a lot of sense."

Scents? Oh Mister El Presidente, you have no idea.

Dear God… P.S. Do Guardian Angels wear deodorant?

Page 131: "Got Perspective?"

Page 131 @ the Batcave

Page 130: Confessions of a Crazed Car Maniac

My beloved Miss Sparks, after more than five faithful years of service, was just decommissioned. She was an awesome car with amazing technology and gadgets, and a faithful companion. In her final weeks, she was with me side by side in an epic battle to rescue Bill the Cat (yes, THAT Bill the Cat - story forthcoming). Ah, Miss Sparks…okay, I confess I don't miss her one damn bit.

I confess that I am non-materialistic but have a serious car fetish.

I confess that I love cars more than certain family members.

I confess that I've spent more hours staring at, reading about, and polishing cars than I've ever spent doing charitable good deeds to help the world (most shameful).

I confess that given the choice between a large scratch on my car and having Bruno the hairy 300 pound bouncer punch my Chiclets out, I would probably let Bruno go to town. You don't need teeth to live, but you don't need a scratch on your car even more.

I confess that if I was the jealous type, I would be crazy jealous of Bob, who gets to run a company in the automotive arena. Working in the car bid'ness? As my excitable old Aunt June used to say, "I think I just peed a little."

I confess that I've "stolen" approximately $43,238 in my life by standing and reading, cover to cover, car magazines out of the racks of stores all over the world without buying them. Sometimes, I've read car magazines in languages I didn't even know existed.

I confess that I am NOT a car snob, but I find almost all American cars uglier than roadkill... although I think the current line of Buicks has a grace and beauty unseen in American jalopies for over 30 years. Okay, who has taken up defending Buicks anytime recently? Clearly I am not a car snob. Quit laughing, Chucklehead -- go take a look at the Buick LaCrosse and see what I mean. On the other hand, the Ford Fusion is the 2010 Motor Trend Car of the Year? Good Lord, Honey. The Ford Fusion is good for one thing: being hauled off to the cemetery, beaten with sledge hammers, and rammed into a giant crater. Fill that hole up with dirt, boys; nobody should have to look at something like that.

These are the confessions of a car crazed maniac. I was on the wagon for almost 6 years, but I fell off with a vengeance.


Please meet my new assistant, Number Six. He's quite a piece of work… German efficiency and all that. Gently used but nary a scratch, he is ready for a new life in Austin and a new set of Starship adventures in the Batcave. Number Six, set a course for the car wash and prepare to set wheels to "polish."

Return to Batcave Home

Page 129: Favorite Prank Memories: Eye Can't Take the Pressure!

"Come on in and sit down," Patsy said, and six of us filed into her office for a meeting. I had known Patsy for years; we worked together in the 1990's in Philadelphia and she had recently moved down to Austin to join us.

I was wincing in pain with my hand up to my right eye. "Is your eye still bothering you?" she asked. I had been walking around with my hand to my eye all morning.

"Yes, it's worse. Hurts like the dickens. It's all swollen -- awful. Never mind me, let's get started," I replied, wincing again, and moving my hand away to peer at her through a Popeye-esque, painful squint.

"Well, I think we should start with these new accounts," Patsy began. "Because they-"

My low moan interrupted her. I rubbed my eye, in increasing agony. "Oh, man. Man, oh, man. It feels like so much pressure -- killin' me!" I groaned.

"I've got some Tylenol, will that help?" Patsy asked, concerned. The other people around the table were staring at me.

"No, no, I'm fine...I think….OH…oh man… can't take this PRESSURE. Seriously, never mind me, let's just get through this," I said.

"Well. Okay. So if we start with this first set of accounts -- hey, can I get you a wet rag?" Patsy asked worriedly. I was clutching my eye intensely, my face contorted.

"I… I… my…eye…feels…like…it's gonna…explode…pressure..." I answered. I stood up, still clutching my hand over my eye. "AWWWWWRRRGGG!" I gurgled, and that was when I smashed the liquid Mr. Coffee Creamer I had been hiding in my fist next to my eye, sending evilish, white gooey liquid exploding all over the conference table.

"OH MY GAWHHHD!!!"Patsy thundered, the table scattering as she lunged backwards against the wall with the most horrified expression I have ever seen. She stood staring,her mouth hanging literally open, at the remains of my what had once been my eyeball, splattered all over her table.

There was a brief moment of absolute silence… and then, unable to stand it any more, I broke down into laughter. Hysterical laughter, the kind that can kill you if you aren't careful. The people at the table, most of whom were in on the joke, were laughing their heads off. I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen, and had to lay down on the floor. After a shocked moment, Patsy stomped out of the room, uttering a series of expletives that might have been targeted in my direction.

Mission Accomplished.


PRANK INGREDIENTS

• One long tenured unsuspecting friend
• One plastic container of "Vanilla" or Regular liquid Coffee Creamer
• Overacting Skills
• Ability to Hold in Laughter during Prank
• Ability to Stay Conscious After Prank
• Ability to outrun your Prey (if needed)