It is very hard to find good parental staff these days… verrry hard! All I want to do in the morning is get my snack on and my Wonder Pets on, but every day I end up leaving the house looking like this.
Tired of Patriot running backs going down before the end of the season, Abby trains for the position:
When will they turn on us!?
We seem to have a problem attracting the right winged visitors. I put up a bat house two years ago; hornets moved into it. I replaced the bat house with a bird feeder last year; birds are now killing (and eating!) each other (in addition to the seeds!) in our back yard!
At first we thought this was a freak occurrence. A pile of feathers suggested bird violence, but there was no corpse. On cue, a big black bird flew back into our yard carrying a sparrow in its beak! Ok… fine… Lord of the Flies meet Lord of the Birds, but later the same day, the black birds took down another sparrow and proceeded to eviscerate and dine upon the victim.
We either need to stop the murders or write a new verse to Abby’s favorite cartoon bird song:
I love to watch the birdies play!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
The black ones kill the grey ones!
Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!
They like to eat seeds!
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
But they also eat each other!
Doon doon! Doon doon doon! Doon doon doon! Doon doon!
I think the crows are doing the actual killing, but the redwing blackbirds seem to be getting involved with the eating, so it’s kind of a general black bird issue at the moment. Hogan the ridgeback has been known to momentarily inconvenience squirrels on the feeder, as they will casually move from the feeder to the top of the fence when he gets within a couple feet of them, but he’s essentially useless against flying pests. He’s pathologically afraid of greenhead flies, so he’s never going to get the job done against crows. What we really need is a grotesquely-massive house cat or some kind of a midget panther, but these beasts seem to cause more difficulties than they solve.
I may try to domesticate some crows with peanuts (apparently that’s an option!), or I may just wait until it’s a dark and stormy night and move the damn bird feeder into a neighbor’s yard.
“If she can win the game twice, there is a flaw in the game.” Russell Hantz.
I won! Really!? Thanks, Losers! Yaaaay!
Yep… there’s a definite flaw in the game. Twice in a row now (and I’ve only watched the last two seasons!), the most pathetic player remaining has been voted the winner of Survivor by a crew of sour grapes losers. This is the fatal flaw of Survivor… this “let the losers decide the winner” finale.
Who came up with such a craptacular endgame? Donny? What a crock! Was it the same jackass who tried to make all little league baseball games end by rule in a tie, so that no feelings are hurt. But this is really even worse than PC invasions into recreational activities! This is like saying, “hey now! You’re a competent player! You’ve outwitted, outplayed, and outlasted, so now you’re shit out of luck! That’ll teach you… you… you achiever! The time for kicking ass and writing down the names of losers is over, so congratulations Natalie… and thata-grrrl, Sandra! Let’s hear it for the weak and the inept!”
Note: this should really be a longer post about what’s wrong with America these days, but I am a voter, not a thinker.
Another note: my wife says that I completely underestimate the “social game” within Survivor, that yang without yin does not a winner make. Blah blah blah. To me, that’s like saying a diving catch in the endzone should count more than a half yard run up the middle, or that Steve Nash should get two points for each free throw because he’s super-informed and outspoken on social issues that don’t affect him personally. I just threw up a little bit and can taste it at the back of my throat.
Unless they change the finale to be some kind of an actual competition (instead of a high school popularity contest) between the remaining contestants, it’s just a sham, man. It’s like a Miss America Pageant without even the talent segment; if Vegas won’t give you odds and let you bet on it, it’s just not a real sporting event… it’s crap dumped in an exotic location. Hey! It’s kind of what LOST is turning out to be after all these years.
Where else does this happen? Where else do the losers get to decide the winner by exercising their voting privileges? Do the Bruins (after their historic collapse against the Flyers) get to vote for the Stanley Cup Champion? “Hmmm… Philly kicked our ass, but we just don’t like the cut of their collective jib! Let’s vote for the Sharks!” Did the Yankees (after their historic collapse against the Red Sox) get to vote for the World Series Champion? “The Red Sox scored more runs, but damn it if La Russa doesn’t give a fantastic concession speech! Shine on you crazy Cardinals; you’re the ‘real’ champions in our collective mind!”
Ultimately… yes… and thank heavens… the real losers are those individuals watching Survivor on television or (even more damning… uh… I mean… empowering!) writing blog posts about how much Survivor sucks afterward. But I now understand that losing carries with it godlike power and responsibility, so I can’t wait to get together with other losers to start determining winners!
Now that I’m a Survivor loser, who should I make a winner today? Should it be a crappy sitcom? Should it be cable news? Maybe I’ll make European Handball on ESPN IX a winner tonight? Now that I’m onboard with the Survivor methodology, only my capacity for losing limits my opportunities for crowning winners in this new Survivor universe, and I plan on taking full advantage of it.
You beat me at golf? Great! Pay me… because I just voted my Rhodesian Ridgeback the winner and I’m his accountant. Your team beat my team in YMCA basketball? Nope. We have 8 players to your 7 and we just voted ourselves another win. You want us to pay this bar tab? I don’t know… you got the votes? You might owe us money.
One thing’s for certain: LOST ain’t winning a damn thing if I have anything to say about it.
Look at this! I’m eating an unpeeled carrot and bread I was supposed to throw to the ducks in the pond. I COULD be eating a delicious burrito from the Howling Wolf Taqueria if Pat would get off his ass and open the doors while I’m still young enough to be carried into the restaurant!
I wish I were eating a burrito now!