Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Pondering Life's Mysteries...

I ponder things.

Sometimes I tackle the big ones, like "Why are we here?" or to get deep about it, "Where is here, really?".

Sometimes I get really intense, focusing on things like "If a tree falls on a mime, does he make a sound, or, more importantly, does anyone care?"

If you're a mime, go ahead and yell at me from inside your little invisible box; I won't hear you.

But there is one issue that I have pondered since I was a child, one to which I have never received a satisfactory answer, and one that was brought back to the front of my mind (such as it is) this evening as I gave the boys their dessert:

Just what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks flavor of ice cream is Superman?!?

I mean, I understand the coloring: red, blue, and yellow, same as Superman's costume. That makes sense, and the colors are very obvious.

But what flavor is it????

What flavor is it??????

The name "Superman" is uselessly non-descriptive flavor-wise! I mean, yes, the word conjures up heart-warming images of truth, justice and the American way, but it doesn't say "tasty".

And tasting it to determine the flavor doesn't help in the least; it's totally unidentifiable. As a matter of fact, the only description I can come up with for it is "not chocolate".

Or maybe "not vanilla".

I don't know; one of those two.

Asking the clerk serving the brightly-colored concoction at the local Dapper Dan's does no good either. All I've ever gotten in response to this question, which I've been asking since I was five years old, is a glassy-eyed stare along with "Did you want one or two scoops?"

When I get to Heaven, I think this will be the second thing I ask God, right behind "What's up with the platypus?"

This is why I don't eat Superman ice cream that often anymore.

It angries up the blood...

Thanks for reading my ranting,

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Monty Python, Where Are You When I Need You?

Monday evening, Blake and I were waiting for Hunter to get done with his karate class.

Normally, we go and play on the playground, or watch one of the Little League games going on behind the school, but we've had about two days this past month that it hasn't rained.  Monday wasn't one of them, so we sat in the car.

Blake was looking at one of Hunter's books, a rather largish text-book-sized tome about building things with macaroni and straws and stuff.

Then he said (and those of you who know Blake can probably hear the exact tone of voice he used), "I'm gonna hit myself in the head."

"Buddy," I said. "That's probably not a very good idea; that's a very big book."

Well, that's what I was going to say. Actually, what I said was, "Buddy..."


"Ooo," said Blake. "This is a big book."




Then he says ( I swear I'm not making this up):


The only thing keeping this from being a Python movie is that there was no Gregorian chant preceding the "THWACK".

You can imagine how proud I am.

Also, how mystified.

But hey, at least he's enjoying books...

Thanks for reading my ranting,