I just got back from Christmas vacation with my family, and we were reminiscing about some funny memories. One of them is the tale of the spiced pancakes. My mom, being the sweet person she is, decided to make pancakes for us on a Saturday morning. We were all living in California at the time, and my sister and I were about 8 and 10 years old. I remember everyone taking a bite, and then an awkward silence came upon the room. I should have noticed something was wrong just by looking at them. The pancakes had a lot more volume and heft than your typical IHOP pancakes. We kept eating like good little kids, but very slowly. The pancakes had a strange salty, peppery, savory flavor to them that just doesn't belong in pancakes. Dad knew that they tasted funny, but he made us eat them anyway.
I finally realized why they had their special taste. My mom had made fried chicken for us the night before and tossed out the seasoned flour she used for the batter. I saw a bag of perfectly good flour and put it back in the flour container. I figured this out midway through the second bite. I would have come to the solution sooner, but I was still recovering from the shock to my taste buds of the pancakes. Anyway, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and don't put the flour back. There's a reason it's in the trash!!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The dynamic duo
This is the best ad campaign ever!!! If you are not familiar with chucknorrisfacts.com, check it out a little before you see this. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy the genius that is Mike Huckabee's campaign staff.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Funny story, not happy time
I thought I would come out with one of my big requests at parties, Christmas gatherings, and drunken brawls. Yes, it is the story of the Volkswagon and the crappy motor.
By the by, much lerve to Schisler for the mention in her blog.
Anyway, my senior year in high school my dad decided to buy me a car. Yes!!! He actually surprised me after baseball practice. I didn't even know he was going to buy me a car. Looking back on it, this was a very sweet thing to do. I hope as a man I'm allowed to use the word sweet when referring to a man. Please get back to me on that one. My time in baseball is actually a story in itself. More on that later.
Back to the story. My dad is a large man as well. He is about 6'6", and comes pulling up in a 1970 red, Volkswagon Rabbit. A Diesel. Diesel!!! The color was not just red, but a very oxidized red. I think we used up a whole bucket of wax on the thing. Yes, we did wax it.
I have to admit, I was slightly underwhelmed. I was a senior in high school, and finally starting to break out of my dorky, geeky persona. I think I'm out, and then they pull me back in. My best friends at school gave me grief to no end on this car. My knees just about stuck out of the window it was so small. To get inside was a feat of physics that has not been explained or solved to this day. You had to plug it in during the winter to keep the diesel from turning into molasses. In order to get up a hill near my house, you had to make sure you didn't hit the red light at the bottom before the ascent or you were toast. I would have to do the old rock back and forth to give the car some momentum to get up the hill. Just starting it was a violation of the environment. Black smoke would come pouring out of the tailpipe everytime. That was always fun. Everybody would watch James start his midget mobile and wait for the impending explosion.
But one day....
I was driving to a rehearsal, and the clutch or something gave out. The motor gave off a sound that can only be described as, "the sound". I will try to include a video someday of my impression of the sound that this thing made. Just think of it as a very high revving sound. Anyway, everytime I would put the clutch in the engine would rev as high as it could go, and white smoke would come pouring out the back. I literally couldn't see anything behind me. Well, we got it fixed and I got to use it for a few more weeks. It happened again on the freeway, and it occurred on a spot where I couldn't pull over to the right because the entrance was right there, so I had to pull into the middle of the highway. This is I-25 in Colorado by the way, and Colorado drivers are not the best in the world. Running red lights is almost a rite of passage in the state. Anyway, I had to wait for about an hour before I could run across and call my dad at the gas station. No, I didn't have a cell phone because they had just come out in the mass market.
We ended up selling the car. I'll break down the money on this one. My dad bought it for 100 bucks, put another engine in it for 900, put over $3000 worth of repairs on it, and sold it back to the same guy we bought it from for 75 bucks. We took out the stereo we put in it so we only got 75 for it.
The story isn't as good without the sound effects, but I hope you get the gist.
By the by, much lerve to Schisler for the mention in her blog.
Anyway, my senior year in high school my dad decided to buy me a car. Yes!!! He actually surprised me after baseball practice. I didn't even know he was going to buy me a car. Looking back on it, this was a very sweet thing to do. I hope as a man I'm allowed to use the word sweet when referring to a man. Please get back to me on that one. My time in baseball is actually a story in itself. More on that later.
Back to the story. My dad is a large man as well. He is about 6'6", and comes pulling up in a 1970 red, Volkswagon Rabbit. A Diesel. Diesel!!! The color was not just red, but a very oxidized red. I think we used up a whole bucket of wax on the thing. Yes, we did wax it.
I have to admit, I was slightly underwhelmed. I was a senior in high school, and finally starting to break out of my dorky, geeky persona. I think I'm out, and then they pull me back in. My best friends at school gave me grief to no end on this car. My knees just about stuck out of the window it was so small. To get inside was a feat of physics that has not been explained or solved to this day. You had to plug it in during the winter to keep the diesel from turning into molasses. In order to get up a hill near my house, you had to make sure you didn't hit the red light at the bottom before the ascent or you were toast. I would have to do the old rock back and forth to give the car some momentum to get up the hill. Just starting it was a violation of the environment. Black smoke would come pouring out of the tailpipe everytime. That was always fun. Everybody would watch James start his midget mobile and wait for the impending explosion.
But one day....
I was driving to a rehearsal, and the clutch or something gave out. The motor gave off a sound that can only be described as, "the sound". I will try to include a video someday of my impression of the sound that this thing made. Just think of it as a very high revving sound. Anyway, everytime I would put the clutch in the engine would rev as high as it could go, and white smoke would come pouring out the back. I literally couldn't see anything behind me. Well, we got it fixed and I got to use it for a few more weeks. It happened again on the freeway, and it occurred on a spot where I couldn't pull over to the right because the entrance was right there, so I had to pull into the middle of the highway. This is I-25 in Colorado by the way, and Colorado drivers are not the best in the world. Running red lights is almost a rite of passage in the state. Anyway, I had to wait for about an hour before I could run across and call my dad at the gas station. No, I didn't have a cell phone because they had just come out in the mass market.
We ended up selling the car. I'll break down the money on this one. My dad bought it for 100 bucks, put another engine in it for 900, put over $3000 worth of repairs on it, and sold it back to the same guy we bought it from for 75 bucks. We took out the stereo we put in it so we only got 75 for it.
The story isn't as good without the sound effects, but I hope you get the gist.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Funny story happy time
Okay folks. This is my first attempt at blogging. The premise of this blog will hopefully be funny stories from my childhood, work, and my time in the CIA. One of my first funny stories has been sent to my family via email, so I will have to refresh that one at a later date.
Today I will tell the story of my forehead and the basketball goal. The setting is in California at First Baptist School in Pomona. The weather is rather Californiaey, with some heat, smog, and the smell of warm asphalt. I was a spry eighth grader at about six feet tall and ninety pounds. No, I was not anorexic. At this time my family would shop at the Thrift Store for me, and very few things fit for an extended period of time. Sometimes I would only wear a pair of pants for a month. Yes, I'm a freak. I believe I was wearing cords that day, so I had my own built in soundtrack of the song "vwip, vwip, vwip...". I hope that last comment was funny. Anyway, I had just started playing basketball, and I even got most improved player of the year. Me and this other kid, who was the MVP that year, got into a one on one match. We were on the blacktop, and the basketball goal is one of those with a big pole on the ground. This one had an extra curb in front of it. I went for a layup, tripped on the curb, and my forehead met squarely on the pole with a loud "bwornnnnnnnggggg". If you are not familiar with the term "bwornnnnnnnnnggggg", just go and find a Texas historical marker. Make sure you read the marker in order to learn something for the day, and then walk to the backside of the marker. Make a fist, and with the meaty part of your hand near the pinky, strike the middle of the backside of the marker. You should hear a boisterous "bwornnnnnggggg". This is similar to the sound of the basketball goal that day, minus the sound of my skull hitting metal. Anyway, I did win that game, and had a huge headache the rest of the day.
Today I will tell the story of my forehead and the basketball goal. The setting is in California at First Baptist School in Pomona. The weather is rather Californiaey, with some heat, smog, and the smell of warm asphalt. I was a spry eighth grader at about six feet tall and ninety pounds. No, I was not anorexic. At this time my family would shop at the Thrift Store for me, and very few things fit for an extended period of time. Sometimes I would only wear a pair of pants for a month. Yes, I'm a freak. I believe I was wearing cords that day, so I had my own built in soundtrack of the song "vwip, vwip, vwip...". I hope that last comment was funny. Anyway, I had just started playing basketball, and I even got most improved player of the year. Me and this other kid, who was the MVP that year, got into a one on one match. We were on the blacktop, and the basketball goal is one of those with a big pole on the ground. This one had an extra curb in front of it. I went for a layup, tripped on the curb, and my forehead met squarely on the pole with a loud "bwornnnnnnnggggg". If you are not familiar with the term "bwornnnnnnnnnggggg", just go and find a Texas historical marker. Make sure you read the marker in order to learn something for the day, and then walk to the backside of the marker. Make a fist, and with the meaty part of your hand near the pinky, strike the middle of the backside of the marker. You should hear a boisterous "bwornnnnnggggg". This is similar to the sound of the basketball goal that day, minus the sound of my skull hitting metal. Anyway, I did win that game, and had a huge headache the rest of the day.
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