Friday, October 14, 2011

Un, deux, sacre bleu...

...That's how The Beastie Boys would rap in French. How you say, "mic check?" Bien.

It's been a while since we penned anything aboot Himself. Ah, lady. It's hockey time, and he insists, every time that I ask, that "no Flyers tickets are to be had for the rest of the season." What in the shit is that? You're telling us that Our Illustrious Blacque Pirate Fryday Planz (tm) to see Les Flyers jouer the hockey against Les Habs will not happen? Merde! This will not do. Sheezus Christ, it's, like, crazy! And don't even get me started about how your head is upside down.

Still, the sisters will meet in The City of Brotherly Love during the Season of Giving Thanks to engage in hot tub action with Dony Breere and Clod Giroooooooooo. After Jagr [sic] Bombs are procured at Bridget Foy's, that is. Don't anybody tell me you disagree with this plan. Well, unless by "anybody" you mean Monsieur Magic Hands in the Blue Jays Hat at Six Flags. (That's his new formal title.)

The jury is out as to the accommodations that will be presented to the aforementioned travelers. No, Robert E. Lee is not riding on us. That was a joke for Mom, who will never read this. Anyway. (Perhaps the other element in this sibling equation would like to expound on the topics of separate beds, matrimonial celebrations, and the North Carolinian taco bar.)

Regards of the sitcheeasheion, I anticipate--nay, PROCLAIM--that much fun will be had, and also that the weather will not suck. I refuse to spend three hours to go twenty miles on the goddamn 87 --> 287 route over the Hudson. Stupid NY Thruway. And I swear that woman in the fast, new BMW coupe with Quebec license plates was someone's mother. Just sayin'.

Go Caps, and for the love of God, NOT THE FACE.

Compulsed,
knxvil.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Homage to Shep & Gil.

Ladeez-n-gintz, as it is the Day of the Fry, may I be the one to present an homage to The 701 Level (http://the701level.wordpress.com/). Yes, I may.
--
OH HAI SHEP&GIL WAT UP MUTHAFUCKAZZZZ

SO DIGIT IM HEAR IN BOSSTONE AND ITS ALL LIKE RED SOCKS REVOLUTIONARY PATRIOTS AN SHIT AND I SAID TO MYSELF YO SHEP AND GIL WOULD BE ALL UP IN THIS BECOZ THE GUYS WITH THE BASEBAL YOUKNOW THERES A DUDE RELEEVER WHAT HIS NAME IS DANNY BRAD AND I WENT OH SNAP RIGHT WE GOTTA GET US GOIN WIT A BARDCLAP AND THEN OH HELL IF THE PHILLES AN SOKS GO 2 THE WURLD SERIUS CHAMPENSHIP IN 201! AND IT GETS WAY LATE IN TEH NINETH INNEN THEN WHO IT COUD BE BARD LEDGE AND DAN BRAD AND THEN AH SHIT BARDCLAP VERSIS BRADCLAP AN THE SKY WOUD OPIN UP ALL APOCALYPSO-STYLE WITH CARIBEEN QUEN BILY OSHEN AND FOURTEEN HORSMAN AND THE RAPESURE

BUT NOT IF CILF LEEEEEEE GOES FOR A PREFECT GAME THEN NO BRADCLAP NECUSARY AND I LIKE THAT CILF IT STAND FOR CILF ID LIKE TO FUCK NO WAIT DUDE IM NOT GAY WHAD YU MEN THIS IS ON TEH INTERNETS AN SHIT OK THEN HELLO CILF YOU FUCKEN RULE MAN GAY OR NOT COLE HAMILS IS GAY THO FUCKEN HOLYWOULD CUT THE WINEING MAN IT GETS OLD

I ALREDY MIS VILLE LENINO UP IN BUFLO BUT AT LEEST WE STILL GOT DAN BREYER I LIKE HIS ICE CREEM CHOCLATE MINTCHIP IS DA BEST GO FLYS

ANDY REIDSKY NEED A SANGITCH WITH WIZ STEK AN CHEZ NOW IM HUNGRY PEACE OUT YO

-KNXVIL

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

All I learned about dating was not from Himself.

Dad was, for the first 19 years of his life, a Junior. Little did he know that the gods of conception and ultrasonography would betray and deceive him, respectively, and not once, but twice, did he produce a lovely girl child in the place of a potential namesake. Perhaps to some extent, despite being totally absent during the various stages of puberty and completely lame Homecoming and Prom dates, Dad still feels protective of us in the oft-uncharted waters of personal relationships. I, as the older and unmarried one, am not alarmed by the judgmental opinions offered by said paternal figure on any potential suitors that have graced his Gaskill doorstep; I've always taken them with a grain of salt, and have also always harbored a little thought in the back of my mind that somehow, someday, I'm going to present him with a professional athlete as my mate-in-waiting, and then shit is gonna get nuts.

With that in mind, please allow me to share with you a guide I have just now written, that is, "How to Land the Professional Athlete of Your Dreams: You're Not Crazy."

A. Choose a professional sport to follow.

1. You probably don't want to choose football, because even though you might wind up with Tom Brady, then again you might end up with Ray Lewis. And you know that although Ray Lewis can kick anyone's ass, keep in mind that he thinks the Devil is coming because of the NFL lockout, and that the cities are going to fall into chaos because of the crime. I'd laugh, but he actually said this in an ESPN interview.
2. Basketball players were cool when they were all young and in college, but when they grow up they do things like become alcoholics and lose their hair. I'm looking at you, Bobby Hurley and Jon Barry. So never mind that.
3. Baseball. Um... All right, so that one time I did get Jayson Werth to look at me, and that was great, but that was when he was a Phillie and before he became horribly overpaid and a loudmouth saying shit about his team. See, this is a problem. I find it hard to believe that someone can be completely normal at home when they misbehave while they're at work. And that tobacco shit, no thanks. Keep your mouth cancer to yourself. Next.
4. Hockey. All right, we'll go with that.

B. Learn about the sport.

1. Hockey is played on ice.
2. The puck goes really fast.
3. Your player will probably get his ass kicked on national television at least once.
3.5. Especially if he hits the star player of another team from behind.
4. All haircuts are acceptable, and being in the playoffs usually means it's time to grow a beard.
5. Helmets are a very, very good thing.

C. Memorize some kind of trivia about your player.

1. Come on. You at least have to know when his birthday is and where he's from.
2. This is why they created Wikipedia, after all.
3. Very few players from the Canadian Maritime Provinces actually play in the NHL.
4. This doesn't give you license to spew out stalkerrific facts on your first date, however. Be cool, man.

D. Attend sporting events and make your voice known.

1. Make a sign.
2. A good sign, not some cheesy-ass sign that asks him to marry you.
a. It's been done.
b. Be creative but not creepy.
3. Somehow get into position so he sees the sign.
a. No, don't put your phone number on it. I said don't be creepy!
b. A nod of appreciation is okay, but you can do better.
c. You might want to make sure the guy is actually single before you get too invested in this, you know.
d. All right, as long as he's not horrified, you're doing just fine.
4. If you don't feel comfortable with making a sign, cheer loudly (in his native language, if possible, if that's not English).
5. If your player is on the away team, be prepared to meet with opposition from the home crowd.
6. If a puck comes into the crowd in your direction and you try to get it but it's trapped in the row in front of you and you can't grab it and pull your hand out from between the seat and the concrete floor, but somehow the usher has a puck that he throws to you at the end of the game, congratulations, your player was listening and felt bad for the whole crowd seeing you screw up on the Jumbotron.
7. Somebody on the team always goes for drinks afterward. Hit the bars in style and keep an eye out for anyone who looks like they just got punched in the face.
8. Make a lot of sarcastic comments at this person's expense. If your player likes sarcasm and he's nearby, it's all good.
9. Nine goals is three hat tricks, also known to some folks as an "Ovechtrick."

E. Participate, don't hate.

1. Introduce him to your circle of friends as a normal person.
2. It's cool if they recognize him. Just don't preface everything with his team name, position, and salary.
3. For the love of god, don't post stupid shit on Facebook or try to throw it in anyone's face.
4. If you're in a city with a decent newspaper, go to charity events and get yourself on the Society or Style page.
5. Volunteer with the team wives, if they let girlfriends do so.
6. Realize that he'll be crazy busy for 8 months out of the 12 that are in the year, possibly even more. You need to have your own life; don't lose yourself in the allure of it all.
7. He might buy himself something ridiculous.
8. Like an Audi R8.
9. If you both have your feet on the ground, you'll be fine in the end.

I <3 you, RJ08. Love, knxvil.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Himself's Infamous "Early Start"

Remember December? The reason for starting this blog? When Himself was supposed to arrive in the afternoon, but showed up on my doorstep at 8:25am?

He's visiting again, and told me beforehand that he was going to arrive around 8, as we were getting ready for work. Great. So then he called last night and said "Leave a key, in case I run into traffic." (Pause.) "Or in case I get there before you're up."

I immediately knew what was going to happen. And sure enough, I woke up at 6:30 and peered as far down the hallway from the comfort of bed as I could see, and the living room light was on and my dad was sitting in a chair, reading. I don't know how long he'd been there.

I didn't ask what time he woke up this time, or what time he left Philly. All I know is that he brought us coffee and pastries from Starbucks, so I say, if Himself wants to show up at my house at 6am, not wake me up, and wait for me to come enjoy free coffee and pastries, he can do it any damn day of the week he wants.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Who's da Black Sheep?

I recently became aware of Himself's preference for a certain commercial, as related by the younger author of this blog. Apparently he enjoys the Kia Soul commercial featuring various rodents frolicking in "New Hamsterdam" to one of our generation's anthems, by none other than The Black Sheep. He enjoys the commercial so thoroughly, in fact, that he chose to sing along on one occasion. His words weren't exactly correct, however; he offered up something along the lines of "You could go for this, or you could go for that." Syllable wise, sure, it still fit. But as someone who normally lives his life as That Guy Who Knows a Ton of Crap and Isn't Afraid to Offer It to You While You're a Captive Audience, okay, perhaps song lyrics aren't his cup of tea. I can only imagine the awkward rhythmic gesticulations that accompanied his rendition.

Now, take this secondhand story and ponder it. The Black Sheep. Why yes, they're... black. Does Dad know? Probably not. Couple this with his random exclamation to me over the phone while the NFL season was still at its peak that "Donovan McNabb doesn't have a black soul," and it makes me wonder what Dad's been smoking and if he got it from Richard Pryor. That is all.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Are you okay, Dad? Are you choking???

I recently told a friend the story of Dad choking one night when we went out to dinner. It wasn't very dramatic, but it was very hilarious, so I figured I'd post it here.

I was 19 at the time, as I recall it. Dad was living in DC during the week and commuting back to Philly on the weekends. I'd spend a night or so with him every week or two so I could experience what it was like to stay the night downtown on the 16th (? I think) floor of a big high-rise. I got to sleep in the office/dining alcove right by the kitchen, and in the morning we would have big bowls of plain Cheerios and almost as big mugs of Taster's Choice crystals with condensed milk. Before you narrow your eyes accusingly, coffee snob, allow me to tell you that this was absolutely delicious and exactly what I needed to be dropped back off at my mom's house at, oh, 6:45am. The night before, he'd pick me up somewhere and we'd go for a long walk to the grocery store or a restaurant, taking advantage of DC's 9pm summer sunsets.

So, one night we walked to Cafe Deluxe in that weird Cathedral-esque neighborhood that's not quite walkable from Metro (at least not Metrorail). I think Dad had steak or some other kind of meat. Cafe Deluxe's menu hasn't changed in the past twelve years, and there aren't a lot of options, but they are pretty much all delicious. That information is unnecessary to the story. Anyway, Dad talks five times as much as I do, if you can believe that, and suddenly in the middle of a sentence he was silent. His face turned a deeper hue of red than normal and he began to cough.

"Are you okay, Dad?" I asked. He shook his head and continued coughing.

"Are you choking???" I asked more urgently. He nodded and continued coughing.

"DO YOU WANT ME TO GET SOMEONE?????" I yelled. He shook his head... and continued coughing. By this time he was a bit plummy in complexion.

And then, in a big letdown -- for plot's sake, sicko -- it somehow worked itself down the pipes and he was fine.

I've eaten at the various Cafe Deluxe locations several times since this incident and to this day it's still all I can think about. At least until I've had a Maker's Manhattan or two.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

The older one weighs in...

On the flip side, I am:

-Not a boy, as Dad wanted (first child, namesake, blahdy blah).
-Graced with his initials anyway.
-A sports fan, lucky for him.
-Named after our parents; my sister is not.
-The exact opposite 50-50 combination of our parents' facial features; apparently, however, this isn't enough similarity to prevent people from thinking that we're on a date, as mentioned previously.
-Taller, although Dad lied to us as kids and said we would be way taller than we turned out to be.

Ah, genetics. Bless you.