She Sparkles!

You know, life is a strange lady. One day, your standing on your friend's deck, drunkenly shooting each other in the ass with a BB gun. Then a couple years pass, and that man is responsible for a human life.

Scott and Tiffany, congratulations on your feat of reproduction.

Dessie Marie, welcome to the world.

.328 Career Batting Average!

A recent conversation with the B2B about our future went something like this:

Me: Pretty soon you're gonna have a new last name.

B2B: Yeah. I'm excited, but I may miss my old last name.

Me: I'm pretty liberal. I'll let you hyphenate it... around the house. (that part was under my breath. See what I did there?)

B2B: That's nice, but Schilling-Kuykendall will be hell for our children, when they learn to write their names.

Me: True. But we don't have to name them that. We get to name them anything we want. I think that applies to last names, as well.

B2B: Really? What name will they have?

Me: Boggs.

B2B: I can see that. (In a child's voice) Mommy? Daddy? Why is my last name different from y...

Me: (Interrupting) BECAUSE WADE BOGGS IS A GOD! Now go to your room without dinner.

Let's just hope that his sister Donna Mattingly isn't such an impertinent little ass.

When I was a kid, you couldn't enter the majors, until you grew a mustache.

Is There A Hobo Fire In Our House?

Last night, as I was leaving my place of employment, the Bride-to-Be called. "I almost lost your dog, tonight," she said. I questioned what had happened. Apparently, the pup had yanked her leash from my future wife's hand, realized that they were no longer tethered, and took off like Usain Bolt going for gold. Luckily, our friend Matt had come over to see the pup and easily retrieved our Olympic pooch.

Unluckily, during her brief adventure, she came across a skunk that must've appeared to want a friend. It did not want a friend. I came home to a smell so foul that words don't do it justice. The best description I can come up with is that it smelled like burnt poison.

I can safely say that now (after 23 hours, 4 doggy baths, 3 vacuumings, and too many curse words to count), we can literally breathe easier. But it's been a tough go to get to this point.

On a related note, I know that the skunk spray is a defense mechanism, but I don't understand how it works. That smell (like that of a chemical plant fire) was so horrible that it evoked nothing but anger from me. Blinding...white hot...anger. So how is that a good means of defense? If I were the dog, the interaction probably would have gone similar to this:

Kevin Dog: Hey! Look at that squirrel-cat! He looks neat! I like his white stripe!

Skunk: Oh crap. I hope he doesn't see me.

Kevin Dog: Hi! Do you wanna be my friend! I really like your stri......

Skunk: Take this!

PFFFFFFT! (thats the sound of ass juice being sprayed)

Kevin Dog: What the!?!? Did you just spray me with something that smells like a dirty hillbilly's meth lab? Oh God! F%^*, you! F@#!, you....you little S#@$ F@$# &^*((&^$%&*&%%#^&*^()(%%$##@%^$%^^%#@$%)(*!!!!!!!! I just wanted to be your friend, but now I am going to have to murder you in your dumb face!

And I didn't really like your stripe!

Why would someone spray me with ass juice?

Here's two things I've learned during this ordeal:

1. Using tomato juice to kill the skunk smell is a myth. I wish I had discovered this before...

2. If you're not going to keep tomato juice in your home, then you should try to strain the chunks out of salsa before you pour it all over your dog in the shower.

My Cerberus

They're is a new addition to the Devil's Wind family. The Bride-to-Be and I decided it was time to adopt a pooch. Meet Bootsy!

Hi There!

We brought this beautiful little girl home on Saturday. She is half Doberman and half Labrador Retriever. So, she will murder you in the throat, then give you kisses.

My dear friends, this dog embodies the devil's wind. If, in the search for alternative fuel, the world's scientists discover a use for canine flatulence and/or excrement, then I am sitting on a gold mine.

Say What!?!?

Three Races, Same Show

Around the time I get home, three shows seem always to be on at the same time:

According to Jim

The George Lopez Show

My Wife and Kids

I'm glad to see that crap knows no ethnic boundaries.

Poorest Nation, Eh?

I think we may be getting scammed by all this "Haitian relief" business. The following ad is as it appears all around the interwebiary.

The children are not only carrying substantial amounts of gold, they are flashing it around like a rap video. Sure, I've seen all the video on the news of the suffering of the Haitian people, but with that kind of bank, I'd imagine it'd be pretty easy to fake.

Either that, or the people of Haiti haven't figured out that they can trade all that gold for goods and services. Who's the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere now? (I'm looking at you Canada)

In all reality, if you do want to give, HERE is a link to Matthew 25 Ministries. They are one of many great organizations with efforts to help Haiti in its time of need.

Thanks to Shawn for sending me the ad.

All The Single Ladies

Dear ladies,
I understand that when you go out to the bar or club you want to look nice and try to find you a fella (perhaps you just want to feel pretty). However, as the temperatures go near and below freezing, bundle up a bit. Wear a jacket. Find yourself a nice outfit with sleeves and pant legs. You don't always have to slut it up. As a once single man myself, I can guarantee that the guys will still find you attractive. What they won't find attractive is your stump, after your frostbitten leg has been amputated. Well most of them anyway, some people may be into stumps.

Take care of yourselves, ladies. I worry.

Sincerely,
Devil's Wind

J. Thomas Is A Dick Head Meter Maid.

So, yesterday was New Years Eve. I got up early, despite not feeling top notch, because I wanted to accompany the Bride-to-Be to an appointment with a wedding photographer. So we pull up in front of his building. I proceeded to place an American twenty five cent piece in the meter for our space. But alas, it changed nothing. That's right my friends. My quarter bought us no time, so we proceeded inside, assuming the meter was broken.

Fast forward to 45 minutes later.

B2B and I are exiting the photographer's office to find the meter maid (he's a man named J. Thomas, but attacking his masculinity consoles me) typing in a ticket. I yell from the steps, "Hold on! That meter is not working." His response? "It's flashing red. That means it's expired."

Me: Yes! But I put a quarter in and nothing happened.

Dick head meter maid: mmm hmmm. (uninterested in my protest)

Me: Yeah. Here let me show you.

So I pulled some change from my pocket and proceeded to put a nickel in the meter. Sure as hell, five minutes popped up.

DHMM: Seems to be working fine.

Me: Well, it didn't just before nine.

DHMM: (while now printing the ticket) I can't help you. You can call the number on the top and tell them your story.

Me: I will.

DHMM: Here.

Me: Great. You're awesome. (Then under my breath as he walked off) Dick head meter maid.

So I called the number. Talked to a very nice lady named Sharon. She told me to write what happed on the ticket, mail it in, and they'd look into the matter.

But I would like to reiterate that J. Thomas is a dick head meter maid.

I told you that to tell you this.

Later that day, B2B and I were at Kroger. As we left I noticed this.

That's right! Friggin' fake mustaches for a mere fifty cents. But looking into my pocket contents, guess what I found. Only one quarter, because I wasted my other one on a Cincinnati parking meter that didnt' work. Which would have been fine, except the dick head meter made, J. Thomas, still gave me a ticket. So I got a ticket and did not have the funds for a fake mustache.

I hope for better in 2010 (but not for J. Thomas: Dick Head Meter Maid).

Really! Why Am I Watching This.

Right now, it is just after 4am on December 06 of the year of our Lord Twenty Aught Nine. I am sitting on my couch with the woman I love (and plan to spend my life with) currently asleep on my lap. I find myself watching a movie on one of the local channels (seeing as we don't have cable or satellite), called "Judicial Indiscretion". Here are a couple problems I have with this film:

A.) The writers of the movie don't seem to understand the duty of the Supreme Court. The main character claimed that she hopes her nomination leads to appointment to the highest court in the country, so that she can "put criminals behind bars".

The Supreme Court ONLY decides cases of constitutionality. Not criminal cases.

B) The Supreme Court nominee is trying to cover up some criminal activity (that she views as only possibly illegal), and tries to cover it all up as she seeks and wins appointment to the Supreme Court.

C) The writer, producers, directors, and actors of this film think that I won't make fun of this horrible display.

I am sure that if you want to see the movie, you will (at some point) find it on late night. Otherwise, look in your local $5 bin.

I just found myself wrapping up this post... and now there is a rape subplot involving the "Smoking Man" from the X-Files.

This movie is really providing more and more baffling crap than one can handle.

Quick Update

The Girlfriend will henceforth be referred to as The Bride-to-Be, until such time that she becomes The Wife....or comes to her senses.

Goin' Batty.

Oh, these kids today and their Twilight. I understand what all the fuss us about. Vampires are sexy.

Random Shower Thought #17 (30th Birthday Edition)

In some circles a new millennium doesn't technically begin until the '01. Christ's birth isn't denoted as being the year zero. It was the year 1 AD (non-Christians, please take no offense. But, our calendar is based on his birth).

Do I get to count my thirties as not beginning until I'm 31?

Swingin' Twenties

On this, the last day of my twenties (as I cling to my youth), I feel I should take a look back at the highlights of the decade that was.

Age 20: Found a gas station that wouldn't turn down my fake ID. Don't remember much else.

Age 21: Got an actual ID saying that I was 21. Bought my first legal beer. Don't remember much else.

Ages 22-25: Don't remember much during this period (see Age 21) I think I graduated from UT and got a job somewhere during this period. Also, somehow I wound up living in Cincinnati.

Age 26: Umm. I am at a loss to find anything from this year.

Age 27: Turned 27 in London, UK. That was pretty cool.

Age 28: Found the love of my life. The Girlfriend.

Age 29: Bought a house. Moved in with the girlfriend. Lost a dear friend in Neck Beard.

Tomorrow, I turn thirty, and as it times out, I will make my first mortgage payment 9 days later.

I could use a drink.

The Legend Of Neck Beard.

First off, let me apologize for the lack of posts recently. For those of you who've bought a house, please explain to those who haven't, just how utterly time consuming/frustrating/brain draining it can be. I would literally sit down with a few spare minutes and a post in mind, and as soon as I my fingers hit the keys.....BLANK.

Anyway, on to the story.

The Girlfriend and I start looking for a place to live in sin back in April. By July, we had been through several dozen homes and really liked two of them (only to have those two snatched away from us). We took the July 4th weekend off to travel to Tennessee. TG pointed out that I hadn't shaved in a few weeks (which is about how long I can go without shaving, before she starts complaining. She is rather tolerant). I, then and there, declared that I was going to grow a playoff-style beard. I was not going to shave until we found our house.

This was done in the hopes that it would encourage her to be a little less picky with houses that I thought were perfectly fine. It soon back fired.

Here's the thing about playoff beards. Hockey players grow playoff beards. They also play on ice. Football players, sometimes, stop shaving when they get into the playoffs. Said playoffs happen in the winter. It is ill advised to try to grow facial hair in the dead of summer, especially when you are not used to having a lot of facial hair. I thought I should be fine: a)because we shouldn't take that long to find a home, and b) I can't grow a lot of facial hair anyway. What little hair I can grow, grows not upon my chin, but rather upon my neck. Which is, actually, somewhat fitting in the sense of it being a playoff beard.




After about a month, I was starting to look like a high schooler growing a beard for the first time (a look that wouldn't improve much with time). Even worse, it was extremely itchy. TG found this fact quite amusing. She would ask if I wanted to shave. I'd say no. I'd start scratching. She'd laugh.

Damn. This was gonna be tougher than I'd originally thought. But as it grew shaggier and itchier, she just laughed harder, telling me that I could shave at any time. But I was not to be deterred. Plus, somewhere along the line, I started to grow attached to my new neck beard. I unknowingly stroked it like a prospector philosopher.

Then, it happened, in late August (after having gone through more than 70 homes) we found a house that we liked. We made an offer and (with a bit of haggling) our offer was accepted! This was exactly what we wanted. But that day, I was told the beard had to go. I tried to explain that I should keep it until closing. However, I was reminded that my original intention was to only keep it until we had an offer excepted.

And like that...poof...my little buddy made of neck hair was gone. And my chin and neck were cold for a week, and a single tear rolled down Kyle Orton's cheek.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes tight and listen really hard, I can hear him just under the skin. And, I know that some day, we will be together again.

Enjoying The Suds.

I mowed the yard today. After finishing my battle with the ever-growing grass (in the heat of the afternoon, no less), it was time to hit the shower. But wait, this was to be no ordinary shower time.

1) I am off today.

2) Later this evening is the draft for one of my fantasy football leagues.

3) There is beer in the fridge that needs to go into my belly.

And thus, I decided to participate in the greatest of all (solo) shower time activities. BEER SHOWER. It was awesome!!! But I have (sorry, guys) discovered a problem with shower beer.

Shower beer is great under two circumstances

1) It is but one beer to be drunk.

2) It is the last beer to be drunk, after an evening of drinking.

You can't start you beer drinking campaign in the shower. Unfortunately, every beer after that glorious shower beer just can't compare. With every subsequent beer, you are simply reminded that you're not drinking it in the shower.

From Woods To The Hoods

Having worked in both rural and urban areas, there are some similarities that I have noticed in the extremes.

Not A Single Henderson In This Movie

Yesterday, the girlfriend and I went to see The Hangover. As we were headed to our theater (number 17), I noticed the sign outside of one said "Harry 6". Which made me happy. I thought perhaps there were 5 sequels I just hadn't heard of....

There aren't. It's apparently some crap movie about witches or something.

I Don't Know What All The Fuss Was About.

I don't know what Sarah Palin got so upset about. They'd have a beautiful child.

Click here to see for yourself.

Looking For A Home Makes Me Lazy......Sorry.

I apologize for the lack of posts recently. It seems that between work and looking for a house to buy, I haven't had a lot of time to relish you all with a post worthy of putting on the Wind.
I will be back soon enough, and hopefully with tales of the crap endured in buying a home. I leave you with the following (which is a post I sidelined during my anti-protest posts). Hopefully it will quench your thirst for new material for the time being.


General rule of thumb: Anyone willing to publicly protest something is not your friend.

In my job as a news videographer, I have covered many a protest. Usually, protests are the commonplace of hippies (and despite my love of the Grateful Dead..... I DISLIKE HIPPIES). I understand your right to protest, but I just don't understand your need to do so.

Sometimes, however, a group of people that share my opinions feel the need to protest. But, (and this is a big but), as a general rule of thumb, PROTESTERS HATE THE MEDIA. I don't know why. I admit this much. 'Cuz, if you dislike something so much that you feel the need to hold up a sign on the side of the road, one would think that you'd invite journalists to cover your rants. But it seems that (left or right) the one thing protesters can all agree on is that the media is the enemy.


And...I AM A PART OF THE MEDIA.

Oven Lovin'

I think it only runs in the late evening, but the following commercial has caught my attention as of late.


I know they're just trying to be humorous, but who approved this commercial? When deciding where to get lunch, humor goes out the window, if I think the guy making my sandwich has been humping the oven. Plus, I don't think I want a sub that you've just compared to a penis. I just want a delicious meal that I am not fellating.

I'll just head over to Jimmy John's. They don't have an oven.

Call me a prude.