Guest Song Parody

This song parody was sent to me by a friend and Undaground reader. He has previously commented under the moniker "wetblanket".

The song is sung to the tune of the Ramones "I Want to be Sedated". Enjoy.

I Wanna be Cremated by the REMAINS (of Anna Nicole Smith)

How many how many more hours to go?
I wanna be cremated
Nothing to do, nowhere to go, oh
I wanna be cremated

Just open up some Kingsford, spread it on my clothes
Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I decompose
I can’t feel my fingers, I can’t feel my toes
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Two hundred twenty-four pounds to go
I wanna be cremated
I’m a fat, talentless Marilyn Monroe
I wanna be cremated

Just get me to an oven, put me in an urn
Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I start to turn
Trimspa’s finally working, I’ve got calories to burn
Oh no oh oh oh oh

(refrain)

Sprinkle me over Texas, drop me from a plane
Hurry, hurry, hurry, burn up my remains
Enough Weekend at Bernie’s, I wanna go up in flames
Oh no oh oh oh oh

(refrain)

It’s better in the Bahamas, get me an ashtray with a view
Hurry, hurry, hurry, before I start to stew
No need for reservations, I’ll fly out of the flue
Oh no oh oh oh oh

Ditzy ditzy ditzy ditzy Anna Nicole
I wanna be cremated
No more cable news, no reality shows
I wanna be cremated

My Crystal Ball Needs Tweaking

Oh well, one out of four on the elimination guesses.

I think that the other three I mentioned will be eliminated before the final 12. However, I'm a little concerned that the Sanjaya kid finished 4th among the boys. That just reinforces my belief that a large portion of the American public is stoopid.

In other television news, Survivor has been OK so far, but not great. I'll continue to watch that show as long as it's on the air, much like senior citizens who've stuck with Bob Barker all these years.

Mrs. U and I have been fans of Lost since the show began. Unfortunately, Heroes is now killing the Lost experience for us. The excellence and fast pace of Heroes is really putting Lost to shame and exposing its weaknesses. We've decided to watch Lost until the end of this season, and then have a sitdown family meeting to discuss whether we'll watch Season 4 beginning next fall. Lost always raises more questions than it answers, and I fear that I won't give a crap once they finally reveal the answers. Do I really need to wait until 2009 to have a 2004 question answered? The best thing that could happen to Lost is if they come out and announce that next season is the last, then they can just work toward the climax without stringing people along for years with no end in sight. Take a cue from the BBC, Lost. Sometimes less is more (see the BBC Office and Extras).

Prediction Time

Yes, I know that the Undaground predictions have been pretty lame in the past. If you went with my NFL picks during the divisional round of the playoffs, you might be having some financial problems. Sorry about that. Though my NFL expertise has decayed over the years, my reality television crystal ball is shiny and works well.

Here are the four people who will be voted off American Idol tonight.

For the Love of Mushrooms

Last night, after the baby went down to sleep, my wife and I enjoyed a lovely dinner of raviolis with goat cheese and roasted red peppers, plus some fried mushrooms with a three-cheese dip.

As we were mathematically divying up the mushrooms, 6, 7, 8, our hands met as we both went to grab our ninth and final fried treat. On the baking sheet was two mushrooms, one large and robust and the other, tiny and pathetic. I grabbed the large mushroom and my wife settled for the runt.

"I was going to give you the bigger mushroom anyway."

"Well, I'm twice your weight so I think that makes sense given our daily caloric intake tables."

"But, you know I love mushrooms more than you, so that should count for something." My wife had a point. Or did she?

"Honey, I know that you're a very vocal fan of mushrooms. Maybe I don't express myself in the same way as you, but I consider myself a mushroom-lover as well."

"But I always say how much I love mushrooms," she replied.

"So does that mean that you love them more than me? Should I spend more time talking-up mushrooms? Do I need to get a canvas, paint a giant mushroom and hang it in our living room."

"Maybe you should", she said.

"I love West Virginia football. When I go to a game and sit next to a face-painter, does that make him a bigger fan than me, because he goes the extra mile to show his support?"

"Just eat your huge mushroom and drop it."

"Thanks, by the way, for giving me the huge mushroom. If it makes you feel any better, I just squirted fried mushroom juice down my shirt when I bit into it."

I'm not sure what the point of the mushroom story is. I don't believe there's any deeper meaning than what's on the surface. But I would like to point out that my wife loves mushrooms, and, even though I don't always say it, so do I.

Heroes

The other night, my wife and I watched "Heroes" on Tivo. I'm sure it was frustrating for Mrs. U, because I had to rewind two or three segments at the end after I had fallen asleep on the couch. Eventually, we made it through the show and I deleted it, thinking I had seen it all. I don't really remember much after that, because, as soon as the show was over, I immediately drifted back into a deep slumber on the couch.

About an hour later, Mrs. Undaground tapped me on the shoulder to wake me up. Apparently, at that moment, I sat straight up on the couch, looked at my wife and began an animated conversation.

"Honey, yours and mine should be interchangeable," I said while talking with my hands for emphasis.

"Yours and mine what?" my wife said.

"Our POWERS," I replied as if the answer was obvious.

When Mrs. Undaground began to laugh I realized that I was no longer asleep and I was, indeed, having a conversation with my wife. In the next few seconds as she continued to be amused, I snapped back to consciousness and tried to replay the conversation I was having and figure out exactly what I was talking about. I can only assume I was dreaming that my wife and I were "Heroes" and we both had some sort of superpowers.

Once I completely woke up, we both enjoyed a hearty belly-laugh. It feels good to laugh, and it feels better to know that my wife knows that when I dream, I dream of a world where she and I walk hand in hand, fighting evil together.

I believe that this little incident proved that point to her and put to rest any fears that, when I close my eyes, I dream of Shakira. (My dreams don't lie, and neither do my hips.)

Happy Valentine's Day

Let's take a walk together down memory lane, shall we:

Yesterday was the 6th anniversary of the first date with Mrs. Undaground. Here's an account of that evening that I posted last year, on the 5th anniversary: Click here.

The next day, I set out to find out what Valentine's Day was all about. Don't just go around saying Happy Valentine's Day today without knowing what you're actually saying. Here's the story of Valentine's Day, also from last year's blog post: Click here.

Finally, I'd like to say that Valentine's Day will always be special to Mrs. U and me, and not just because Hallmark tells me it should be. Last year, on this day, I came home with a bottle of wine and stuff for dinner and Mrs. U told me she was pregnant with the Undaling. We didn't drink the wine for about 9 or 10 months. It was officially the first time we changed our dinner plans because of the baby. Tonight, as we enjoy our Outback Steakhouse takeout dinner in front of the television while we take turns making goofy faces at the child, we'll remember that night fondly.

Better late than never

Better late than never
When the Undaling was born, we planned to have him in his own crib by Christmas. Things didn't work out that way in reality. Honestly, none of us were in a hurry to get him out of the room. I enjoyed having him in there, though I knew the day would come (hopefully before his 18th birthday) when he'd have to be in his own space. Good news, he's sleeping through the night now, in his own crib. Yes, as of Saturday night, he's now chilling in his own Seuss room and the transition has been surprisingly easy. I'm very proud of him and I wish I could reward him with something more appealing than a needle in the thigh.

He's getting his 4-month-old immunization shots today. This will probably go down in his own personal history as the day he begins his dislike of doctor's offices. Sorry, boy. I never thought I'd use this phrase, but for the first time, let me tell you: "It's for your own good."

Better late than never
Saturday, I went to Blockbuster to rent a movie and came to the realization that all the new releases are crap. So, I did something I've been meaning to do for awhile and rented the first season of "Arrested Development". I had heard that this was an excellent show, but we never had a chance to watch it since it started before I was a "Tivo-guy" and it was up against the Sopranos. Anyway, if you never saw the show, I urge you to go get the first season on DVD and give it a shot. It is very funny and extremely well-written. We're now halfway through season one and I look forward to eventually watching all three seasons. Like Freaks and Geeks, Ed, and a few other notables, this show was cancelled way too early and deserved a better fate.

Better late than never
Coming off their Grammy performance, the Police are now officially getting back together and touring Canada and the US. Read about it here.

Maybe Next Time

It's time to introduce a brand new adverb to the Undaground blog:

"crappily"

As in, "I participated in a poker tournament with some old people this weekend, and I played crappily".

My favorite adverb is still "swimmingly". However, that word doesn't apply in this case.

At one point, I was the chip leader at my table. Then, my pocket jacks were cracked by a deaf man with three sixes, and I lost most of my stack on one hand. There were actually two deaf guys at my table. They were speaking to each other using sign language throughout the game. Unfortunately, I only know sign language for the lyrics of "Bridge Over Troubled Water", so I couldn't tell if they were cheating, but I have my suspicions.

I'm a good sport, so I did congratulate him after he cleaned me out by signing "sail on silvergirl", combined with a thumbs up. I hope he didn't take offense. If I knew I was going to be playing against the deaf, I would have learned how to sign a Kenny Rogers song. Then, I could have offered him some advice on those three sixes for a taste of his whiskey (I would have told him to fold 'em, by the way).

In other unlucky news, we did not win the lottery Saturday night. Of course, there's a one in forty-two million chance that we did actually win, and that I'm lying right now to lay low until the press conference. There was a brief moment of panic that evening, about three hours before the drawing, when I realized Mrs. U was doing laundry and I had left the lotto ticket in my back pocket. Thankfully, I found the pair of shorts and retrieved the ticket before it was destroyed in the washing machine.... but we didn't win, honestly. (unless I'm lying).

Two Chances for Riches

I haven't played a hand of poker since the boy was born. It's one of the things that I've given up in order to "spend more time with my family". Other things that I've cut out of my life include going to movies (anxiously awaiting Borat's DVD release), watching hockey (the Flyers dismal season is making this very easy), and break-and-bake cookies (I can no longer say I'm eating for three).

Anyway, tomorrow I am playing a poker tournament at a retirement community. I'm hoping to shake the rust off and accumulate some chips early enough in the tournament to put myself in a good enough position to win. This will be the third time I've played in this tournament. My first two attempts didn't go so well. The poker gods were not good to me. Each time I had a hand, somebody next to me with an oxygen tank had a slightly better hand. Old people talk a lot of trash in a very passive aggressive way, so, if I eventually win, I will take great glee in spending their social security checks on a new laptop for Daddy. For what it's worth, the players who are hooked up to heart monitors are much easier to read.

If I fail in the poker tournament, I have another opportunity to cash in on Saturday night. The Florida lottery is up to $42 million, so I'm fixin' to get me some tickets. (For those of you who live up North, 'fixin' is Southern talk for 'plannin'.) At least three of four times a week, Mrs. Undaground and I have a conversation that includes the phrase "when we win the lottery". The problem is, we never actually buy a ticket. I'm not a professional oddsmaker, but not having a ticket probably lessens our chances of actually winning. This time, we'll have our tickets. I'm thinking I'll get 3 or 4 quickpicks, depending on how saucy I'm feeling when I enter the convenient store.

So, wish me luck on the poker thing and the lottery thing. I've got a good feeling that this could be a big windfall weekend. At the very least, I plan to walk out of the poker tournament with a complimentary bag of bagels and walk out of the convenient store with a tasty Payday bar. Even if my weekend is not profitable, I expect it to be very delicious.

Guest Column from THE UNDAGROUND MOM

Another installment from the Undaground Mom. As always, her words appear in her very own font (verdana) and text color (blue #2). Enjoy, and please comment.

I got up late this morning.

This rarely happens to me but it is a direct result of taking Tylenol PM. I took the little helpers so I would fall asleep fast after a late night at the office and very early arrival scheduled for the next morning. I wanted my brain to stop messing around and go to sleep. I didn’t feel like naming 10 bald headed men, counting all the body parts that have 3 letters or using some relaxation technique. (I think the bald headed men thing is to cure hiccups anyway). The directions on the label stated that 2 tablets was the dosage. I looked at the warnings to assure myself that this wasn’t the biggest risk I’ve ever taken. I don’t have glaucoma or difficulty urinating due to an enlarged prostate gland. I hadn’t consumed any alcohol let alone 3 or more drinks. I’m not planning to operate any heavy machinery in the next few precious hours. It appears that I’m the perfect candidate to achieve a “safe, non-habit forming way to help me sleep so I feel refreshed the next day”. Two it is.

Two tablets later, I’m slumbering.

I woke up when I hit a wet spot on the pillow. That’s weird! The label didn’t mention risk of drooling. I look over at the alarm for a time check. I was looking forward to that feeling I get when I realize there are hours before I have to fumble for it’s off button. I’m not one to toy with the snooze button – it’s sadistic. What’s this?? 6:15? I had the alarm set for 5:15! I can’t believe my eye slits so I have to actually pick up the clock and look at the numbers very closely. I don’t even remember turning the alarm off and slipping back to dreamland. I know I set it. I set it and reset it and double checked it again.

What else have I done in my sleep stupor that I wasn’t aware of? Where the hell is the cat? I hope she’s alright but I don’t have time to look. Right now I have to jump out of bed and curse several times while waving my hands. I’m not sure how this is supposed to help but this is what occurred since my reflexes haven’t noticed that I’m awake.

OK. I have 18 minutes to get ready. What can I eliminate from my regular morning routine?

Coffee? Not a chance.

Shower? I can tame my Sideshow Bob hairdo with some product - I’ll gain 20 minutes back because I own good gel and deodorant.

Teeth brushing? I have to brush but I can cut it short and not wait for my Oral B timer to tell me it’s time to quit. It’s not the boss of me. Cool, I will pick up a minute there.

Who needs an ironed shirt? The wrinkles will work themselves out through the day.

This is working. I just wish the earworm of the morning wasn’t Gloria by Laura Branigan because all I can do is repeat:

Gloria (Gloria), I think they got your number (Gloria)
I think they got the alias (Gloria) that you've been living under (Gloria)
But you really don't remember, was it something that they said?
Are the voices in your head calling, Gloria?

I made it. I’m at work. I can’t take my eyes off the stain on my left cuff, but no one has said anything.

How was your morning? What song was stuck in your head lately? Is there a logical explanation of why this happens? I simply don’t care if anyone calls Gloria – ever- and I would like to stop thinking about it. Any ideas on how to stop the music?

A Comment on Comments

Thanks for your comments on "Hypothetically Speaking". Mrs. Undaground is pleased to know that children everywhere are injured at the hands of their parents.

Wait, that didn't come out right.... Oh well, I think you know what I mean.

The day that I posted that hypothetical story, I received a phone call from a close friend and a loyal blog reader.

"Hey, I just wanted to tell you about the time we hurt our son."

"Ummm, OK. How are you by the way?"

"I'm fine. Listen, there was this time, when our baby was about five months old. We were at the zoo looking at an angry wolverine, when I..."

"Listen, I'm sorry to interrupt, but why wouldn't you post your comment on the Undaground?"

"I'm not really a 'comment on blog' type of person."

"Oh, I see. Well you know I'm not really a 'talk on the phone' person, so how do we reconcile this situation."

"I just wanted to tell you about the time with the wolverine and the pellet gun and the bucket of pickles and the...."

"I'm really not that interested. If you'd like to contribute to the conversation, you'll have to type in the funny word for verification and use your keyboard like everyone else."

"What if your mom has a comment?"

"She's a regular contributor. She knows the deal-i-o. Talk to you later, bye."

Was that rude of me? Please don't comment here. Please call me with your comments. Operators are standing by here at the Undaground phone bank. I'm currently working on an automated phone system:

For English, press one. Para Espanol, press dos. In igpay atinlay, resspay reethray.

If you'd like to comment on a recent Undaground post, press one. To make plans for the upcoming weekend, press two. To ask for a favor, please hang up and call yo momma.

Man vs Insect

Sometimes, during morning Daddy-time, Daddy needs to go use the bathroom.

When this happens, I strap the boy into his swing for a moment, hand him an appropriate toy, and tell him I'll be right back.

He recently received a small, stuffed green grasshopper as a gift. When somebody with good manual dexterity squeezes it, it chirps. He's not quite there yet, so he's unable to make it chirp, but he sure does give it an effort.

This morning, nature called and I put him in the swing and handed him the grasshopper.

After quickly returning from the bathroom, I walked back in the room and watched him for a moment while I finished off my cup of coffee. He looked at the grasshopper's face and smiled back at it. Then, he turned it around a few times in his hand and spoke to it in baby talk. Again, he looked at the grasshopper's face, probably waiting for some sort of verbal response. Even though the grasshopper remained speechless, the Undaling continued to enjoy his company.

"Hey Buddy. That's a cool toy you have there," I said.

He was surprised to see me. He hasn't figured out the whole object permanence thing yet. He gathered himself and made smalltalk right back at me.

"owwwwwwahhhhhhhoooooooh", replied my son. (I think he was saying "yes, I know")

"Is the grasshopper your favorite playmate, or is Daddy your favorite playmate?"

This question obviously sent him into deep reflection. He continued to gaze at me for a moment while he thought about a response. Then, he looked down at his stuffed toy and studied it again. Soon, he looked back up at me and quickly back down at the grasshopper. He said nothing.

Finally, as the grasshopper and I waited patiently for him to make his choice, he raised the toy to his face and tried to shove the entire thing into his little mouth.

You can interpret this any way you want.

I took it to mean that he wanted to eat the grasshopper in order to get it out of the room, so that he could return to playing with Daddy.

I also concluded that my son is willing to try new and interesting foods. In some cultures, grasshoppers are a delicacy.

Hypothetically speaking

Just for the sake of conversation, let's pretend I had this exchange with my wife last night:

"Honey, I think we need to cut his fingernails again. They're getting really long; like tiny little daggers."

"I noticed that, too."

"And by 'we', I mean Mommy needs to cut his fingernails. I'm deathly afraid of clipping his fingertip."

"You? I already clipped him once."

"Well, since you've already scarred him for life, there's no sense in both of us being on the list. Just in case he ever decides to resent you for it later in life, I can play the role of innocent peacemaker. I'm just a bystander in the whole finger mutilation thing."

Now hypothetically, let's assume that my overachieving, eager-to-please, textbook-version-of-a-caring-mother wife immediately began to work on this task and started to clip the boys nails. That could happen, right? Not that it did. Remember, this is all hypothetical.

Now, bear with me. In my hypothetical crazy dream world, where purple elephants fly through the air and dancing polar bears enter our home at the top of every hour to entertain my family, let's just say, while clipping his fingernails, Mrs. Undaground snipped his fingertip.

Then, let's pretend that I heard her running his hand under a faucet and repeating the words. "Mommy's sorry, Mommy loves you," over and over again.

I know it's difficult to imagine such a crazy world, but please continue to suspend disbelief.

If this were to happen (hypothetically), maybe it would take a little time for the wound to stop bleeding (even though the wound is tiny; even in comparison to his tiny finger). Maybe he's a bleeder, like his Dad. Maybe his Mom would think she really hurt him, even though he continues to smile and laugh and enjoy the running water and the extra attention he's receiving. Maybe the dog is confused and wants to know why Mommy's crying. Maybe I just want my wife to feel better about the situation after the boy has made it obvious that he is just fine. Maybe I start saying things like:

"If a clipped fingertip is the worst thing that ever happens to him...."

Maybe Mrs. Undaground starts saying things like:

"Will this show up on his fingerprints? Did I disfigure him?"

Then, after the hypothetical bleeding stops and the situation stabilizes; the baby is sleeping and Mrs. Undaground has turned the corner, maybe I ask her if it's OK for this to go on the blog. Hypothetically, of course.

In the real world, I don't ask permission to write about things on the blog. It's artistic freedom of expression. That's what we're fighting for, right?

But since we're talking about a hypothetical situation, perhaps I would be willing to sacrifice some of that freedom just to keep "family harmony" above "freedom of expression" on my handy little list of things that are important to me. Of course, I would need a reason to relay such a hypothetical story to you. My motivation would not be to embarrass Mrs. Undaground, or bring attention to my son's injured finger.

Instead, I would ask my readers for a favor. For those of you that are parents, please help my wife with this hypothetical and tell me how you've hypothetically injured your own children.

Mom, I already know what you're going to say, because I still have an imaginary scar on the bottom of my hypothetical ear from the pretend haircut you gave me when I was twelve.

Mrs. Undaground will be reading your comments. Thanks for your support (hypothetically).