After I almost sorta died while snorkeling, my wife Michele signed us up for some parasailing.  For those of you not in the know, parasailing consists of basically parachuting your ass out over open water, only instead of being dropped from a plane, you’re being dragged around by a boat via a long-ass rope.  So, you basically become a big human kite, soaring majestically into the flight paths of incoming jets.

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 Um… HOLY CRAP

 My stepson Nick & I went up together, and I can tell you that we did go up pretty high.  I could see Cuba or something in the distance. 

  JESUS H. CHRIST 

 After we landed back on the boat deck safe & sound, I struck up a conversation with the boat captain:

(Kurt)  So, how high up were we?  A mile?

(Cap’n)  Seriously?

(Kurt)   Yeah.  But it felt more like two miles.  At least.

(Cap’n)  Nah, dude.  You guys only went about 180 feet up.

(Kurt, nodding) So I was close.

 Michele asked if she should go on it.  Mind you, she’s terrified of heights.  She freaks out on Ferris wheels and atop lighthouses, and was all white-knuckly on the plane ride from New York to Florida.  Naturally,  I told her that she might want to totally skip this.  However, Nick couldn’t get over how awesome it was and wanted to do it again & convinced her to sit in the sling attached to the chute-sail thing.  The good cap’n assured her that he’d reel them in at the slightest sign of a freakout.

 After they went up, I braced myself for meeting Nervous Breakdown Wife, as Michele and Nick were up there for what seemed like an eternity (about 10 minutes).  I figured that maybe the cap’n had misread her hand signals and she was going to come back down to earth all mentally scarred and whatnot.  Sure enough, when she finally hit the deck, she jumped out of the sling and started yelling, “Oh my God!!  That was AWESOME!!”

 Eh.  What?

Truth to tell, she had TOTALLY enjoyed it.  She said that she hadn’t been afraid, because she figured the worst that could happen would be to fall into the water.  Never mind that falling from that high up could possibly kill you AND paralyze you.  But hey, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her (unless what she didn’t know about was a cement block about to drop on her head.  Then?  Total pain.  But I digress).  Also.  No mental scarring.  So, everyone won!

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 That night, we took part in a special ceremony to commemorate Michele’s dead parents.   Her mom died last year; her dad, more than a decade ago.  I know, not exactly a funny topic for this blog.  But?  I bring the subject up in this post because one of their dying wishes was to have their ashes thown into the ocean off of Key West.

 So.  Me, Nick, Michele, and some of Michele’s family went to a relatively isolated dock (because, surprisingly, throwing dead people into the ocean is illegal, even if they’re just piles of ash) and did the deed.  Coincidentally, that was the exact moment that the wind decided to pick up, and, rather than hit the water, the ash was blown by the wind toward an open-air restaurant, where it settled among people who were EATING DINNER.  (Um.  Whoops.)

(Diner at the ash-cloud restaurant)  “Gee, the mahi-mahi tastes a little different tonight”.

We decided to slink back to the hotel after that.

 Overheard:

 (Little girl)  ”Mommy, can we buy a cameraman?”

(Mommy)  “Um…what did you say?”

(Little girl)  “You know, so we could jump on the cameraman and ride the cameraman around!”

(Mommy)  “Wait.  What?  What are you talking about?”

(Little Girl)  “A cameraman – one of those funny-looking boats.”

(Mommy)  “…?…Oh, you mean a catamaran.“

(Little Girl)  “Yeah, a cameraman.”

(Mommy)  “No, it’s called a catamaran, with a ‘cat‘ in it.”

(Little Girl, excitedly)  “Ooh!  They come with cats?!?”

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 After we got down to Key West, my wife decided that, you know, we ought to try snorkeling.  Which I thought might be cool as long as we weren’t attacked by a shark, a barracuda or Godzilla.

 Hey, Godzilla could’ve attacked us.  Probably.

 So, we hopped on a “cameraman”, which took us & a few other potential snorkelers out near a coral reef 8 miles south of Key West.

 Snorkelers & cameraman. 

 Before we went snorkeling, the boat people handed out the snorkel stuff, which consisted of a mask, breathing tube, foot-flipper things and a neon-yellow life vest.  I had assumed that snorkeling would involve wading in chest-deep water and sticking our faces in the water to look at all the pretty fish and pollution.  Turns out that the water that we would be swimming in was, like, VERY deep.  The boat crew offered brightly colored foam floaty noodles for people who suck at swimming.  But even though I’m, like, the Worst Swimmer Alive, Squared, I declined to take a noodle because I’m not four.  Also: I had the life vest on, so I was pretty sure that that would keep me safe. 

 Anyway, after I had slipped into the water and awkwardly paddled about thirty feet away from the boat, I noticed that I was beginning to sink a bit.  I also started hearing a hissing sound, not unlike the sound you hear when something’s hissing.  Apparently, the life vest had a leak and was losing air.  Which was awesome, because, hey, drowning’s fun.  In Opposite Land.  I started thrashing and paddling like a crackhead on fire and grabbed a rope that was tied to the boat & managed to pull myself back to safety and not die.  Once I stopped hyperventilating, I noticed that there was water actually pouring out of my life vest.  Which means that, not only did it not keep me afloat, but it also took on water and aided in making me sink.  Way to do your job, life vest.  You’re so fired.  Bastard.

 After that, I was all about taking floaty noodles in the water with me.  Why?  Because they don’t try to kill you.

My new best friends.

 ”FYI: I’m not wearing pants.”

 My wife, stepson and myself just got back from vacay in the Florida Keys this past week.  It started out normal enough – we landed in Fort Lauderdale & hung out with my wife’s family in a really loud bar.  Which was fortunate, because I had a lot of gas.  So I was farting the whole time,  but you couldn’t hear them.  So it was like they never even happened, except that they kinda stunk.  But that only bothered people who had to inhale, so no harm done.  My wife’s brother kept on shooting her these weird looks, but that was probably unrelated. 

 Anyway.  On the way down to Key West, we stopped off at the Dolphin Research Center, where you can see dolphins, swim with dolphins, and have a t-shirt painted by a dolphin.  Seriously.  Someone sticks a paintbrush in their mouth or nostril or whatever and they spin around in the water while you hold a clipboard with a shirt pinned to it above them.

“I’m not wearing pants either.”

The shirts were $55 a pop, a bit steep when you consider that the “art” that the dolphins made kinda sucked. 

See?  Not exactly a Picasso.

 I mean, I could totally do what they did if I was drunk and someone put a brush in my mouth or nostril and held a shirt up to my face & I spun around & I didn’t puke. 

 I thought that dolphins were supposed to be all sorts of intelligent, but, after seeing the way that they paint, I guess they’re not.  Not unless they’re trying to rip people off; if that’s the case, then they’re goddamn geniuses.

  Not too long ago, I saw these photos and captions on Zimbio – and was impressed with how cool, dark and bald rocker Jon Bon Jovi had become.

 Just sayin’.

 The other day, while mindlessly surfing the web, I came across a site showcasing the Mr. T Chia Pet.

 (Wha…?)

 Now, I thought I was sort of an expert on pop-cultural riff-raff.  However, I’ve never, EVER heard about this thing.

 Some snaps of the man himself demonstrating this lovely addition to any home:

Huh

 ”I PITY THE FOOL WHO DON’T BUY MR. T’S CHIA PET!!”

 This is such a logical product for him to sell.  What better way for kids everywhere to display their manliness and toughness than to have a chia pet that sprouts a green mohawk?

 Here’s the link to the site that I got this from:

http://fusionanomaly.net/mrtchiapet.html

 Mr. T went on TV and not only showed off his chia pet, but also a Mr. T air freshener.  What appears below is a transcript of that show (brought to you courtesy of Fusion Anomaly):

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     “What the Mr. T air freshener does, is this… it gives you that sweet smell… but when the smell wears off after a few months, this is what it does… someone trying to steal your car, they look through the window and see Mr. T, then run off because the car is protected by the Mr. T air freshener.”

Pure genius.

 This past weekend I went shopping for underpants, and found out that they now sell pantyhose for men.  Call it “mantyhose”.  Here’s a shot  of a guy wearing it -

 It just oozes macho manly manliness, doesn’t it?

Actually, it’s probably perfect for the dude that want’s to look like Robin Hood’s gay brother.  Not quite my cup of oolong, though.

 Anywho, after my little underwear shopping excursion, I went out to the parking lot to get into my car when I came across this lovely vehicle.

It’s SNOT-GREEN.  Obviously, a total chick magnet.  It also means that you could sneeze on it & not worry about boogers showing up against the paint ’cause they’d BLEND RIGHT IN.  Which just rocks.  (Or maybe not.)  Ugh. 

Just looking at this thing makes me want to puke up big chunks.  And I mean that in the nicest, most disgusting way possible.  I bet the owner must be color blind.  Or just blind.

  So I was going for a jog this morning in my co-op apartment complex, when I happened to pass our friendly neighborhood newspaper vending machine.

 Note the classy rusting mailbox.  Very posh.

 The vending machine caught my eye, because plastered on the front page of the paper inside was the following headline:

 Which I thought was interesting & sort of cool, as the wedding took place this past Saturday.  Apparently, this wedding was so big that buzz is still  building for it.  You know you’ve got something amazing going on when people are still anticipating it and it’s already happened.

 Then I noticed that the date on the paper was July 11th.  Today is August 2nd.

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(It’s a little blurry, but this is the actual paper in the newspaper machine this morning.   Behind my actual iPod touch.  Which is giving us the actual date.)

 I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach – had the world ended three weeks ago, but I was so preoccupied with my sweet, sweet iPod that I hadn’t noticed?  But I soon dismissed that idea as completely retarded because Chelsea had actually had her wedding.  Also, that weird feeling in the pit of my stomach?  Just gas.

 Speaking about Chelsea’s wedding, I totally crashed it.  And by “totally crashed it”, I mean that I completely avoided it and totally drove in the opposite direction.  Why?  Because I’m ALL ABOUT big-ass celebrity weddings.

 As far as the newspaper machine is concerned – it’s very comforting to know that, right outside our front door, we can get the absolute latest in three-week-old news.  Also comforting: knowing that the newspaper machine is updated so frequently.

 I’m gonna sleep like a goddamn angel tonight.

My wife Michele wants to get a new phone, so I was looking online at some cells on Best Buy’s site.

This is the first screen that greets you at their cell-info spot:

What’s interesting is that their blue “Walk Out Working” logo features somebody apparently drinking a glass of milk.

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See?

Which I think is awesome, and something I can totally relate to.  Because I often carry a glass of milk with me whenever I’m shambling through the ‘burb.  However, I don’t usually think of milk when I go into Best Buy, as they usually just carry the latest hi-tech doodads.  Not sure what the reference to “Walk Out Working” is either.  Not unless they’re talking about a milk-fueled robot, which would totally make sense.  The robot would drink the milk while it’s walking out, and it would be working.  At least, until you ran out of milk.

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Maybe Best Buy should have it drinking out of gallon milk jugs.  Because that would be a Big-Ass Bowl of Suck if your milk-fueled robot stopped working as soon as you got it into your car, and then it just sat there like a lactose-deprived lump.  Or something.  Although then one of those Geek Squad dudes could come and fill it up or, if it still wasn’t working, haul its ass back into the store.  And then you could get a new milk-powered robot, because it would still be under warranty.  I think.

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Update: Someone just pointed out that the image really just depicts a guy talking on a cell phone. 

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Best Buy, I’m so dissappointed.  I really wanted one of those robots.

 I saw this old cereal box cover on the web the other day.  Apparently, the idea behind this was: make a tasty, sugar-coated cereal aimed squarely at kids, and then wrap it in a box with a freaky-ass mascot on it to scare them the hell away.

What the…?  What was the cereal manufacturer thinking?  Did they figure that the Creepy Apple-Head Guy looked cute, or adorable?  I think I would’ve screamed like a crazy woman if my mom had put this box in front of me in the morning.

Mom: “Here Kurt, I got you and your sisters a new cereal.”

Me: “AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!”  

Kudos to you, Kellogg’s, for giving little kids everywhere yet another reason to poop in their pants.

 The cereal above is probably not preferred by people who live near the San Andreas Fault.

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And what the hell is this?  “Kaboom”?  Does this cereal come with a free grenade or something?

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What does a clown have to do with the word “Kaboom”, anyway?  That’s like coming up with a cereal called “Funhouse” and putting a machine gun on the cover.  (Which would be awesome, actually.)

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You can see more wacky-ass old cereal boxes at www.theimaginaryworld.com.

  My wife and I were hanging out over her brother’s house not too long ago.  We were just chillin’ in the living room while his wife was giving their one-year old kid a bath.  Before she could strap a diaper to his ass, though, he ran out of the bathroom, ambled over to a corner of the living room, squatted, grunted, and took a tremendous crap on the carpet. (Just like Grandma used to!)

  We all dashed to the kitchen to get some paper towels, yet, when we came back, the poop had mysteriously disappeared.  Where did it go?  get sucked into another dimension?  Retract back up his ass?  We were all mystified.

  Right next to the spot where the crap had been was the family dog, a black Labrador, licking his chops.  Which was puzzling, until it suddenly dawned on us: the pooch had eaten the crap.

  Now, I never in a bajillion years would have expected a dog to go up to a steamy, stinking fresh pile and think, “OK!  Chow time!”  Rosie O’ Donnell, maybe, but a dog?  Never.

  Stunned at the realization of what happened, I promptly sat down.  And the dog promptly came over and started licking my face with his poopy-smelling tongue.

  Which was great.  Because, as we all know, there’s nothing better than getting a dog slobber / fecal matter mixture slathered directly on your face.