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)

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?"