Laboring Children

Tonight is The Pony's best TV night. He loves that Wipe-Out show where people bounce off giant red balls into the water. After that is I Survived a Japanese Game Show. The Pony and HH love to watch them.

The #1 son and I opt for Nick's lineup, with a kid Ghosthunter show and a kid Survivor show and a kind of kid Cash Cab only it's on a roller coaster and not a cab, and a kid Junkyard Wars. Who in their right mind would let their kids go on these shows? Let's break them down.

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The Othersiders. OK. I let my kid go hunt ghosts in Basementia last Halloween. He and his school newspaper staff had a sponsoring teacher with them. That was not on TV. It was just desperately seeking everyday, local Missouri ghosts, for stories for the paper. See? It was educational. It stimulated their critical thinking skills. Nothing to worry about. It's not like a show that needs to make a profit, and the more the kids are scared, the more viewers the show will have.

Survive This. No way would I let my kid on this show. It's like a group Survivorman. They send eight kids out in the wilderness to live off the land. They started at a turned-over bus and got a few minutes to salvage what they thought they could use. Then they had to build a shelter. Each day, the host comes in to ask if anybody wants to quit. It gets harder. They have to move camp. They have to forage for food once their bus supply runs out. They have to keep the fire going. They have to take a nighttime hike.

Here's the deal. The first day, a city slicker chick tried to open a pocket knife with her teeth. I closed on her lip. So she sat an hour or so with a big honkin' heavy pocket knife dangling from her lower lip, waiting on a paramedic to open the knife and release her. Idiot. I try to keep my boy's idiocy a secret. I don't want it on national TV. Then they had to find food. Some caught grasshoppers. Some caught frogs. The two smartest ones were sent to find edible plants. Good luck with that. Who wants to try one of these pretty stems? Not me. The smart boy caught a pheasant or some fowl by chasing him and landing on him in the brush. While cleaning frog's legs, he cut himself on the inside of the knee. You know, that fleshy area beside the kneecap. Blood poured out through his pants. "I'm OK." He danced away from the kids trying to help him. The Boy Scoutish boy told him to sit down so it would clot. Smarty kept moving around. He was probably in shock. No mention was made of his injury on the next episode. I wanted to see if he got stitches or a tetanus shot. Oh, and on the night hike, the emo girl sprained her ankle.

I'm not sure all those kids will survive.

BrainRush. They put a kid in the front seat of a roller coaster with the host of the show. He asks them five or ten questions while they are flying at a death-defying speed and spinning upside down and sometimes puking. The one to get the most questions right is the winner. I don't remember what they win. Meh. I don't care for this show. I don't like roller coasters. But it is like kiddie crack for the #1 son.

Destroy Build Destroy. Again, meh. I liked it fine when it was Junkyard Wars with adults. But all these kids do is: 1) Choose how to break the other team's junk, like explosives or dropping it or crushing it, and 2) Tell the adult builders the plan to build it, and 3) The winner gets to blow up the loser's junk. It's boring. But then, I'm not a 14-year-old boy who likes to watch things go boom.

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I cordially invite those Jon and Kate haters to watch these shows. Then let's decide who is really abusing kids and needs a hotline call to the Division of Family Services.

Daddy Doesn't Live Here Any More

Jon Gosselin is a selfish piece of crap.

Why doesn't he just be honest with his eight kids and sit them down and explain: "Daddy loves himself more than he loves you. He doesn't want to be here with you and take care of you every day like a good daddy. Daddy wants to have his own life where he can screw girls ten years younger than himself and live in his own apartment where your sticky hands and squealing voices don't annoy him. Daddy does not care about being here for you when you need him. Daddy will come on the weekends as long as Mommy is out of the house. Mommy can see through Daddy's bullcrap, and calls him on his nonsense, and Daddy can't deal with that. Daddy will bring you a NEW mommy. NewMommy will play with you when Daddy doesn't want to, and help Daddy and the servants take care of you, because it is just too much for Daddy. Daddy needs to relive his college days of irresponsible drinking and screwing. Daddy is a party dude, and you are in the way."

"Young girls love Daddy, because he is cool. It has nothing to do with Daddy being a celebrity with freebies and a ton of money stashed away because of our TV show. Daddy can't decide right now on which NewMommy to bring you. Maybe it will be that 23 year old school teacher slut who lives at home with her parents and that brother who went on TV describing the screwing sounds we make in her bedroom. Or maybe it will be that 22 year old pothead daughter of Mommy's plastic surgeon that I took to the French Riviera. The daughter, not the surgeon. I'm sure the surgeon could take himself to the French Riviera. One thing is for certain, though. Daddy is not taking all of you kids to the French Riviera. That would be a freakin' nightmare! Daddy can't be bothered counting to eight at the end of the day to see if any of you got lost. So forget about any trips like we used to take with Mommy. For sure we're not going to visit those Duggars down in Arkansas. Jesus! What in the world is that man Jim Bob thinking? He has a baby every time he looks at his wife. Daddy can't believe Jim Bob hasn't managed to escape yet. But getting back to the trip thing... Daddy's new red sports car only has two seats, which is just room for Daddy and NewMommy, whoever she is that week."

"The first NewMommy might just be the Pothead. It's fate. If Mommy didn't have the free plastic surgery because of our TV show, Daddy would never have met Pothead. God sure works in mysterious ways. Mommy is a shrew, and henpecked Daddy for too many years. It's not Daddy's fault that he's moving out. It's Mommy's fault. Just read all the comments on the internet. Mommy is the OCD devil. She had no right to demand that Daddy take good care of his kids. Especially in front of the TV cameras where everyone could see what a wastewad Daddy is. Now Mommy is reaping what she sowed. Good riddance to bad trash."

"And speaking of bad trash, Daddy has to leave now to pick up one of the NewMommies. See you all next weekend."

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Seriously. People rag on Kate Gosselin, but Jon is the one who wants these pieces of crap around his kids. C'mon. Don't pretend you won't watch. Never waste a good train wreck.

Maybe Jon is totally innocent. Maybe just needs a discreet pot dealer instead of these two losers.

Nawww! He's a selfish, lowlife, cheater!

Paintball Party Postponed

The #1 son was planning to have a paintball shindig this Friday, but he has moved it a week ahead because of his cronies' schedules. I think it's too hot for paintball, but kids will be sweaty little pain inflictors. I told him I don't care what day he has it, as long as they stay out of the Mansion. It's just too much for me to suffer 4 to 6 strapping yapping lads traipsing in and out at will. #1 can't just have a simple paintball battle. He has to have an overnight gabfest. Since he reached the age of 12, that little party has been relegated to the BARn. Last time, I made HH put away all of his alcohol. Not that there is a lot of alcohol in the BARn. Mostly, it is soda and some snacks that HH thinks he is hiding, a couple of beers, and maybe a bottle of apfelkorn or some such elixir that HH has picked up on his travels, before you couldn't carry alcohol on a plane.

I told #1, "I guess your dad will give you a pee pot again and you won't come over here for the bathroom." That was totally HH's doing. I was all for them going outside to take a whiz. In fact, #1 declared that he DID go outside, that only a couple of guys used the pee pot. Anyhoo, that is neither here nor there. I asked him if they ever swept out the loft, which is where they sleep, which is a big room HH made into a bar, with a TV mounted up by the ceiling, and a red-and-white checkerboard tile floor, and girly beer trays displayed on the wall, with bar stools and a bar and a mini-fridge. #1 said, "No. We don't sweep it out. I tell the guys to leave their shoes by the door. It's not that dirty. And anyway, I don't sleep on the floor. I take that old waterbed with that air mattress in it. You know, the one with the built in cabinets under it where we found the sleeping bags that the mice had shredded."

EWW! I said that I couldn't imagine sleeping on top of a thousand baby mice. They have to be in there. If they saw evidence of one, there must be millions by now. #1 said I was overreacting. "Mom. We burned the sleeping bags. There's nothing in there now. It's fine. And besides, that's not the worst thing. You know that back room that dad was going to use for a kitchen and bathroom? The one with the toilet and stove and microwave sitting there? Well, we use the microwave. But when we open the door to go in there, you know that big hole cut in the back of the barn, where dad was going to put a window but just screwed a screen over the opening? It's always covered with wasps trying to get in, and when you look out under the eaves, you can see giant wasp nests! It's kind of creepy, really."

Yes, parents. Send your adolescents to my house. They will be fine. I'm sure none of them have even thought about shooting down one of those nests with a paintball.

Scatterbrain Saturday 7-11-09

Note to CiCi's Pizza: If my feet stick to the floor like a giant octopus coated with Polident, and I have to pick the brown lettuce out of the salad, and the dude wiping and mopping a soda spill only wipes the TOP of the table, not the edge where quivering liquid stalactites hang waiting for a victim... it might be time for the health department to pay a visit. Just sayin'.

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August 10 is too early to start school. Summer still has six weeks to simmer. The thermostats are currently locked at 75. I will die. Even when they were locked at 72, I almost expired. Because when 28 kids pile into that room, they raise the temperature at least two degrees, and the thermostat thingy doesn't kick on the air conditioner for another 10 minutes. So if a miracle or some skullduggery doesn't occur, my room will be 77 degrees for half of every class period. Granted, it's better than the school without air conditioning, where my room had windows facing the blacktop gym roof, and we regularly attempted to learn 7th and 8th grade science with 35 kids per class in 105 degrees each August and September. But still, I am old now, and demand my creature comforts.

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If you give HH a day off, he demands that The Pony leave the house and get some fresh air. This is done by forcing The Pony to ride the 4-wheeler, in which he has no interest, and hasn't ever tried to ride alone. During this venture, HH will discover that the little 4-wheeler needs a battery. That means he will drive back to town for the second time this morning and pay The Devil a visit. Being an opportunist, HM will request that HH bring her back a Sonic Medium Strawberry Slush, because turn about is fair play, and only yesterday HH sent HM on a mission to find his balls. Knowing HH, HM will emphasize three times, in two different phone conversations, that she wants a Sonic Medium Strawberry Slush, the third call being initiated by HH to ask, "Was it a cherry or strawberry slush?" When HH gets home, he is strangely quiet, and by quiet, that means his heavy footfalls sound throughout the house, but he does not holler for a boy to deliver the eagerly-awaited slush. Sending The Pony to inquire brings the slush right to the desk of HM. The LARGE Sonic Strawberry Slush. In some things, large is better than medium. Not in a Sonic Strawberry Slush. There is just more of the icy chemical stuff, not more strawberries or syrup, and the cup is unwieldy. Under interrogation, HH admits that while he ORDERED a medium, the girl brought out a large, saying that because it took so long, she upgraded the order. This, HH found out when he opened his truck door to get it, because the window doesn't work, which reminded him that he needs to get that window fixed. Watch for further adventures of HH in the 'If You Give A Mouse A Cookie' series.

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Our highway has been undergoing some work to put posts and cables along the median to prevent crossover accidents. That's a lot of money to spend because us hillbillies are too stupid to drive on our own side of a divided highway. Or else we can't stay sober until we are off the divided highway. I doubt that we're the only state doing that, though. We have to have laws to vaccinate kids against diseases, because even though they can go to the county health center and get the vaccinations for all their 18 kids for free, people are too stupid to keep their kids from dying of measles and whooping cough. Thank goodness we don't live in New York, where people just might be taxed on sugary sodas and drinks, because they are too stupid to deny their kids soda and let them weigh 800 lbs. Now Florida has too many pythons in the Everglades, so there's gonna be some new law so people don't wander willy-nilly through the Everglades and get squeezed to death faster than a sleeping toddler in a house with a nine-foot albino reticulated python.

PEOPLE PISS ME OFF!

The Devil Has One Ball

You can tell it is near the end of my summer vacation, what with the only subject I have to discuss being The Devil's Playground. I guess that's because I go there every day. Not by design. It's just that something always comes up that I need, and The Devil has it all. I bet the Hillbilly family gives more money to The Devil than the Duggars do.

Baseball Aficionado H has free tickets to some FanFare thingy in St. Louis. I know that's not the name of it, but it escapes me, and I don't care enough to research it. Google is your friend. Anyhoo, the tickets are for Sunday. HH wanted me to traipse through The Devil's Playground and pick up 5 baseballs. People! That is the only corner of the Playground that I do not frequent. I hate hiking across that vast waistboobsweatland to get the stuff that is actually necessary for life. Like toilet paper and Pepcid.

The Pony and I ventured to the far corner of The Devil's lair, where we found ZERO baseballs. Oh, there were softballs galore, in white or greeny-yellow, in boxes and cellophane wrappers. But no baseballs. Then The Pony spied ONE baseball on the back of the shelf, inside a little kid baseball glove. He dug it out. Of course it had no wrapper and no box. I sent The Pony to ask a Devil's handmaiden if there were more. Oh, no. Of course there were no more. "Everything we have is on the shelf." Pity that they waste that 10-acre storeroom in the back. It must cost a lot to not-air-condition that empty, unneeded vacuum. I took the bare baseball, and a wrapped softball, too. My momma didn't raise no fool. At least not the kind of fool that stands in a check-out line waiting on a price check.

We finished our shopping in short order, which in this case means 30 minutes. Everything was in the top part of the cart, the part where you sit your toddler and let his chubby legs kick you all the way through the Playground. The Pony urged me to go through the 20 items-or-less checkout, even though I thought I had more. I piled that crap on the conveyorless counter. A dude was telling a chick that he would be right back. Did she think she would be all right? So I took that moment to say, "Wait a minute. I want this baseball, but there were none with a price, so I brought up this softball marked $3.50 in case that would give you some idea." Because we all know that sometimes, the flustered clerk will ask, "There's no price. Do you remember how much it was?" Dude said he would take both balls and ask his manager. Ha ha. During that time, the Check-out Chick said she knew how to do that, it's just that she messed up some WIC stuff and they made her come to the short lane and have someone standing over her to retrain her. Dude came back and said to scan the softball but sell me the baseball. See. I knew it. And since when do softballs cost $3.50? Those little sweatshop kids must be rolling in the dough over in Malaysia. Or else that Rawlings factory in Licking is cranking out balls now.

On the way to the library to pick up the #1 son after a stop at Sonic for a sweet, sweet strawberry slush to stimulate the economy, I heard on the radio that Cardinal great Lou Brock would be signing stuff at Macy's. Which is neither here nor there, but I always liked Lou Brock, that backflipping little fireball who stole bases like nobody's business. And seemed like a stand-up guy every time he was in the news for something. But the radio said that Lou would only sign items bought at Macy's, which got me thinking about HH's shindig, and that probably they would not sign outside items either. I called #1 at the library, and he looked it up, and could only find a FAQ that said you were not allowed to bring in bats and get them signed. Well, duh! Bats are kind of like a weapon, and who wants a bazillion fans swinging weapons around a baseball fanfare? Not me, that's for sure. There just might be some Cubs fans. And we don't mix, you know, the Cardinals and the Cubbies. But I'm betting that they won't let people bring in their own balls, either. Ha ha. And the authorized balls will cost more than $3.50, I'm betting.

That HH. Every time he gets something free, he costs me money. But I did manage to cheat The Devil. I had 28 items. Not counting that softball.

A Penny Saved Is A Penny Taxed

This week I have been tinkering with the vast investments of the Hillbilly family, namely changing some CDs from 12-month to 13-month certificates. That means that the interest shot from 1.13% to 2.02%. I know. It's mindboggling, isn't it? We are going to get OH SO RICH off that interest.

At least they are making more than when we had the money in a sock buried in the back yard. I had to move that for safety, back when Mining Foreman H was going to mine copper out of the back yard because he found out the well water had traces of copper in it. It's been a couple of year now, but the strip mine is still in the planning stages. Now we are a chicken farm.

I am sure this extra interest will mess with my tax burden next year. You know, my taxes that are not going to be raised. Funny how your money is taxed before you take home your paycheck, and it is taxed again if you sock it away, and it will be taxed again when I kick the bucket and try to leave it to my children. It's kind of like the guy who notices that his feet are sticking out the end of the blanket, so he cuts off material from the top of the blanket and sews it to the bottom in an effort to cover his feet. After several tries, he notices that his blanket is even shorter than when he first got it. Go figure!

FYI... even though you can see my vast qualifications, I have no plans to serve as Savings & Loan Czar.

Is There A Doctor In The Mall?

Today was the #1 son's follow-up concussion appointment with the doctor. Excuse me. I mean nurse practitioner. Guess what? People piss me off!

To start with, the entire parking lot was full except for one tight spot that I squeezed T-Hoe into, down by another office of respiratory therapy of some sort. I despise a doctor's office in a strip mall. I told #1 that if somebody came and parked even closer than the car there right now, he might have to crawl across the console and back out of the space for me. He was game. You know those concussion youngsters. They are regular risk-takers.

Inside the waiting room, the entire bulge of the baby boom sat waiting for their appointments. I'm guessing they were appointments made six months in advance, and not enough oldsters kicked the bucket. This is the doctor (excuse me, nurse practitioner) where they post a sign that if you are more than 10 minutes late for your appointment, they cancel it and bill you anyway. Good thing we can't do that to the doctor (excuse me, nurse practitioner), because they would be in a hole deeper than the Land Lady, that real estate broker who testified at the eminent domain case on which I was fortunate enough to be picked to serve on the jury, after climbing down in a 20-foot hole, she said, to measure a highway sign that could have made her client money. But I digress. One pleasurable outing runs right into the next when you're Hillbilly Mom.

These old fogies did not come alone. They all had a spouse or lady friend in tow. Little did I know that the whole room and some who came in after us would be called back before we were. I know we were worked in outside of the six-month schedule, but I didn't expect to wait an hour. My doctor, yes. This one, no. They used to run no more than 15 minutes past appointment time. Must have been the strict enforcement of that 10-minute rule. Anyhoo... a nurse popped out of one of the side doors and called, "Charles?" An old guy and his old lady and a toddler jumped up. They had barely even sat their a$$es on two newly vacated chairs. We had been there 45 minutes already. But then the nurse looked puzzled. "Oh. Are you ready now? Come on back, we have room." Then she proceeded to call for the real dude she wanted, "Charles Lastname?" He had been there as long as us. I told #1 it was too bad his name wasn't Charles.

When we were called back, I went with my son. For a normal appointment, like his sports physical, or a cough/sore throat kind of thing, I let him go alone. He IS 14 now. But with a concussion follow-up, I wanted to ask some questions. Besides, he leaves out some information. For example, the doctor (excuse me, nurse practitioner) asked, "So how have you been feeling for the past few days?" And my boy replied, "Fine." OK. I'm rifling through my sound effects studio for that screeching brakes sound. Or maybe the stereo needle scraping across a 33 rpm vinyl platter, for those of you who still remember such antiques. What he needed to point out was a headache each day on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. That's kind of vital info concerning a concussion. So I supplied it. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

These people really pissed me off when we were first taken back to the exam room. Just inside the inner office, a nurse weighed #1. Though he looks sturdy to me, he's 152 on a 6'2" frame. Then she took us into the exam room and took his temp with the door left open. A crony called to her, "Who do you have in there?" She yelled back his name. And the crony said, "Who's the other one? The mother?" Well now. Everyone else brought an entourage. I think it is within the boundaries of sensibility for a mama to accompany her concussed 14-year-old into the exam room. It's no skin off your a$$, Crony. You're not even the one working on him. So shut your piehole.

The doctor (I mean nurse practitioner) came in after a 10-minute wait, and poked and prodded and pushed and pulled and shined a light and squeezed #1's head. She said that he should not play basketball or any sport with people until another week has passed. He can, however, run and shoot baskets on his own. And we got a refill on his Nasonex prescription.

I need to call now and make an appointment for the middle of winter, and take a chance that he's sick that day, just in case he needs to see the DOCTOR. Not nurse practitioner.

Note to DeadpanAnn: Real clever, naming your son Charlie so he can usurp appointments that rightfully belong to others of the same name! You're an evil genius!