Monday, Monday, It Was All I Hoped It Would Be

Monday morning came early for me this week. About 4:30, I was rudely awakened by my wife, the buxom and comely and pneumonically flu-ridden Boudicca, hacking and coughing and whimpering that pathetic whimper of those who are deathly near shuffling off this mortal coil.

We discussed what to do about her disease-ridden state, which apparently sparked a bit of inspiration in my lower bowels, and I had to hurry to the bathroom. After finishing up in there--consider it my thinking spot--I proclaimed that I would shower, wake the daughter, get her ready for school, and we would go to the hospital. You can see that I had a pretty good think, think, think in that small, stuffy room.

After getting ready, I load my wife and daughter up into the car and we head down to the hospital where I drop my wife at the door and ride off into the sunset, cackling like a madman and screaming "Freedom! Free-he-he-hee-dom!" go find a parking space. I then gather up my daughter, Cookie, and we trudge into the ER.

Therein, we are met by the ghost of the Notorious R.I.P. B.I.G. and his girlfriend, whom I shall name the Psychotic Pstripper. At first glance, I thought, "Oh, hey, she's kind of cute" only to realize, after having sat down, that she had the face of a giraffe and was so full of drugs that she should have had her own MSDS sheet. Fortunately, Cookie brought a book with her to read, because the Notorious R.I.P. B.I.G. and the Psychotic Pstripper (who was wearing a sheer, white shirt, with one button fastened over what served as her cleavage, thus baring a majority of her disease-ridden torso along with some oh-so-sexy skin-tight jeans...rowr...someone call the Pussycat Dolls) were debating who gave whom what STD. I, myself, buried my attention in a one-page write-up about Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which I read about seventeen times until finally the happy couple went off to see a nurse...only to return a couple of seconds later. They sat uncomfortably close to us (that is how I knew that the Psychotic Pstripper had a face like a giraffe), which caused the security guard manning the metal-detector (ah, Durham, North Carolina, land of milk and honey) to hover near us with a rapt eye upon the happy couple while trying to pretend like she was watching the weather.

Finally, they took my wife to a bed, where they gave her tylenol. The time came for me to take my daughter to school, so we left my wife, I buzzed through Chick-Fil-A to get Cookie some breakfast (notice, I haven't eaten yet), and then off to the school. We arrived plenty early, but I finally got her delivered safely and began my return-flight to Durham. Upon arriving back at the hospital, I pulled into a spot and began dialing my boss to tell him I'd be in late this morning because I had to take my wife to the hospital. Just as I'm dialing, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye and see a Bag Lady trying to climb into the passenger seat of my car! I scream and reach for the locking mechanism. Too late! She's pried the door open! What do you want? A quarter? A cigarette? Just get out of here!

This woman, with her wild, untamed hair, her paint-encrusted yoga pants and black fleece, shambled along and had a look about her as if she hadn't slept at all the night before, like she had been up all night with a fever and a cough and--oh, shit, that's my wife.

Yeah.

So, as I calm down, I call into work and tell them that I had to run her to the hospital and my boss asks if everything is okay and I say, "Yeah, just a nasty fever and a spot of pneumonia" and he said to take my time coming in. My boss is pretty awesome like that (and no, he doesn't read this shit, which is exactly why I still have a job). Anyway, I hung up the phone and I was like, "Dammit! I should have told him you were mauled by a cougar!"

I then take my wife home, get some medicine into her, prop up her feet, tuck her in, help her to get warm, bring her some water and some Sunny D. However, I finally have to leave because, oh, hey, I have a physical at one o'clock. I have to pick my daughter up at three. This ought to be fun.

So, I buzz by work, check in with the boss, tell him I'm off to my physical and then to pick up Cookie and I'll see you guys tomorrow, hopefully with little to no virus bodies clinging to my personage. I'm off to my physical where I get run through the typical gamut of tests. I have to say, I was impressed that they only jabbed one needle into my arm in order to draw blood (normally, it takes three or so) and the doctor didn't jangle my nards or anything. Though, she did ask if I wanted her to help me with a testicular self-exam, and I was proud of myself for not saying "Do you take cash?"

Forty-five minutes later, I'm on my way to pick up Cookie, and since I've been proclaimed one healthy fat man, I decided to celebrate with a quick trip through McDonald's. Nothing says "I Just Passed My Physical" like sodium-encrusted cholesterol wedged between two stale buns.

I finally pick up Cookie, stop off to get my wife some more Tylenol, and head home. At this point, I'm exhausted, still a little hungry, and suffering from one wicked-ass caffeine headache, so I laid down for a little bit. I was awakened about thirty minutes later by Cookie at the side of my bed. "I have a 101.7 fever."

*sigh*

So finally, blissfully, I get everyone taken care of. My wife is medicined-up, my daughter is full to brimming with fever reducers, and I've inverted a bottle of tequila eaten a healthy dinner of left-overs. We all go to bed and we're sleeping somewhat soundly when I'm rudely awakened in the middle of the night by my wife shuffling around in the room. That's when I hear her click off the fan.

"Turn that thing back on or I'll slit your throat," I growl. Except, it came out something more like "I think it's time for you to take more medicine, dear." She curled up next to me, telling me how cold she was, and so we eventually fell into fitful slumber.

Finally, my alarm went off and I threw back the covers, sweaty and specked with the dying vestiges of my wife's diseases, never so happy to see Tuesday morning arrive.

Geography Prowess

After failing to crack the top 50% of geekitude in the last test, I figured I'd flash some serous prowess when it comes to maps and geography:

117

I ran out of time just as I started cranking through Africa (starting with South Africa/Lesotho/Swaziland), and I didn't get through much of central Asia--especially when it came to a lot of the former Soviet states whose names were too long to make for an efficient list...try spelling Azerbaijan and Tajikistan quickly while moving on to the next country in your mental atlas. It isn't easy, even for a dashingly suave geography sophisticate like myself--especially when spelling is key (for instance, I had to enter the Netherlands thrice before I was able to get the auto-checker to accept it...here's a hint...drop the "the" at the front).

So, there. If you're bored this afternoon because your boss and his boss and his boss are all out of town and you really don't feel like doing anything (like a hydrogenation), time yourself with this little quiz. Or just go back to my old post and stare at the girl dressed as Phoenix/Marvel Girl. Either way, you'll thank me for it.

Here's a Shocker

No, not that kind, perv. Via the Incomprehensible Alaina, I find I'm only 46% geek. Really? Huh.

46% Geek

So, I'm a little confused here. I mean, I can name all thirteen of the Dwarves that traveled with Bilbo, recite the inscription on the Ring of Power, recite the periodic table up to tin (I tend to switch antimony and tellurium), can draw the natural steroisomers of all the amino acids from memory, can recite the taxonomic divisions of life from top to bottom, and I can recite base e to 15 decimal places. That's not geeky? Do all of these "abilities" make me A) a nerd, B) a geek, or C) just devilishly handsome and strangely alluring? Hint: The answer is c.

My Cousin, Hank

Snooch to the booch, mes amis, the Whiz is on the Prowl again. That's right, you read that correctly. I spelled Prowl with a capital P. It's kind of like in Winnie-the-Pooh where A.A. Milne capitalizes various words to make them more important? What? You never read Winne-the-Pooh? Get the fuck out of here, Communist.

Okay, for the rest of you who made it through, the Big Man has handed me the keys to the blog today so that I can tell you about my famous cousin, Hank. Apparently, Hank is this week's Monday Frivolity. Whatever. I'm just doing this because the Big Man cranked open a can of tuna this weekend and the Whiz was on Cloud Nine Saturday night. See how it is? You scratch my back, the Whiz provides you with an amusing blog post.

Anyway, we're here to talk about my cousin, Hank. You see, Hank's hit the Big Time. That's right, he's a movie star. He's bordering on Internet Sensation, even, if you can believe it. I'd say I'm a little jealous, but the Whiz is above such petty things. I like to keep my deadly sins focused more on the lust, wrath and avarice side of the aisle. I'm happy for Hank, especially when you consider that he's named for a propane salesman from Arlen, TX (the Whiz and his family are big fans of Texas...get it? Big? Texas? Wait, where are all those crickets coming from?). For most of his life, Hank's been trying to break through the aluminum foil ceiling that keeps us cats down. I mean, seriously, most of the famous cats in the world are either a lot funnier when they aren't around or are just plain effing stupid. Hank, though, he's special. He even went out and learned French for this role. Granted, his accent is a little suspect and some of the translations are a bit off, but, hey, the Whiz claps his fuzzy little paws together in salutation for his cuz.

The only problem is that now Hank's a total prima donna. Yeah, that's right, Hank, I'm calling you out and I'm calling you a woman. Return my phone calls, buddy. I'm not trying to ride your coattails, I'm just trying to find out if you know what happened to cousin Rudy. Christ, man, your little box stinks as bad as anyone else's. Stop flipping your tail around all the time, you pampered little shit. I'm a wizard; I can turn you into a carbuncle. Pick up the damned phone already.

Anyway, in case you were interested, here's Hank's film. Feel free to call him and congratulate him on his fifteen minutes, or should I say "ses quinze minutes"? Yeah, I can speak French, too, Hank. And Latin. I mean, I am a freaking wizard, after all. So, piss off with your bad, cool self.

Anyway, if any of you do congratulate him, tell him to give his cuz the Whiz a ring-a-ding-ding. I need to know what he's taking to the carry-in family reunion at Aunt Donna's this weekend. Thanks and much love.

Is It Over Yet?

That certainly applies to several things (the weekends, the first football weekend, Hurricane/Tropical Storm/Really Windy Thunderstom/Rain Squall Hanna, the plague currently gripping my house). At one point, all you want to know is if it's over yet or not.

If your question was "is his blogging time out over", then yes, yes it is. I have much to say after weeks of silence (1.5 is still plural-worthy), but I'll get around to football thoughts and fall out from recent rain events later. Today, it's time for some frivolity.

So, thanks to Alaina, I found a site that would effectively (and affectively) stalk everyone in these grand United States of ours who shares a name with me. Let's ease into this thing softly, though. Much like with certain activities, the slower you go at first results in less screaming, rending of flesh, and tears afterward. I'll assume you all know how to shave, so I won't go into details there. Instead, we'll look at my first name, which, as some of you may be shocked to know, isn't "iNDefatigable". The real shocker is that my first name is Matthew (as evidenced by the URL for this site). Here's some information about my first name:

There are 1,005,268 people in the U.S. with the first name Matthew.
Statistically the 40th most popular first name.
99.7 percent of people with the first name Matthew are male.
Names similar to Matthew: Matt

Only 99.7% of people named Matthew are male? What about the other 0.3%? Transgendered? Parents really wanted a boy? Terrible accidents with cotton gins? Also, did you know that Matt is a name similar to Matthew? No fucking way! Slightly odd...Matthais, not on there. Nor is Mathew, you know, those guys who are too damned lazy to pick up both tees? It's not like it's an automatic ejection or anything.

Rather than dwelling on what may or may not be similar, let's move on to my second or last name, if you will. Here are the results for the last name Jenks:

There are 6,163 people in the U.S. with the last name Jenks.
Statistically the 5843rd most popular last name.
Famous people with the last name Jenks: Bobby Jenks

There's also three cities urban areas in the country with the name Jenks. There's one in Pennsylvania a bit up the road from Zibbs, and there's one in the butt part of West Effin' Virgina--you know, the part where it looks like the state is hunkered down taking a dump on the far western part of Virginia? Yeah, that's the part. Then there's perhaps the most famous Jenks in the nation, which is Jenks, Oklahoma. I say this only because it has an actual town council and such. Once, I wrote to them demanding that they offer their immediate surrender to me and instantly crown me emperor. Oh, the funs a guy will have when drunk in college. Too bad that I didn't get the crown, because then I could have had, as my Emperess, Jenks native Jennifer Berry. Who is Jennifer Berry? She was Miss American in 2006. See, I was just that close to doing what most creepy middle aged men only dream of: nailing someone with self-esteem so low she has to compete in beauty pageants to help justify herself to herself.

Another famous person from Jenks is Sean Mahan, who played at my beloved University of Notre Dame (like Jenks, there's a Mahan in West Effin' Virginia). As a touch of an ironic twist, Sean, who was from Jenks, lived in the same apartment building as yours truly back in the day. Fame follows me wherever I go, clearly. Also, Jenks is one of the state's best high school football teams, winning the state championship 6 times in a row. Oh, what could have been: a fine piece of ass on my arm, riches from the oil wealth to fund my growing empire, and an army of cornfed farmboys to serve as my super soldiers. Pardon me for a bit while I dream.

Sadly, I was in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a few years ago and never got over to the other side of town to visit Jenks. If anyone of you lovely readers is from Jenks, OK, I'd still love a hat. Or a shirt. Or some other trinket from your fair city letting me know that you love me as much as I love you.

Alright, so let's get down to the nitty and the gritty here. Here's the final count for the people who have my name in the U.S.:

HowManyOfMe.com

There are 20 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many folks share your name?

Twenty? I guess that would explain why there were a shit-ton of people in college emailing me demanding to know if I was their friend or not. Depending on my mood (read: how drunk I was), I would toy with them and pretend I was their friend. But, wow, twenty? Taking into account that I may be one of those 20, that leaves nineteen other guys trying to be me. I already knew about the guy at Purdue who shared my name. He's a horticulturist. Wow, a plant doctor. At Purdue. Who would guess? It seems like he needs to grow some high yield feed for all those cows down there, huh?

Also, it was a little disappointing to see that only famous Jenks was Bobby Jenks, the closer for the Chicago White Sox, and while I would normally bitch and moan about that, I'd take Bobby in a heartbeat after watching the Cubs, once again, piss away a game in the ninth inning. Not that I'm bitter.

So, there you go. A little frivolity for this fine Monday morning. Play around with it. Just don't blame me if you go blind. Also, feel free to follow the link and investigate how many folks share your name. It could be enlightening, or just plain fucking stupid. Apparently, you have to be 13 in order to play the game, and be sure to get help with your gambling addiction, crackhead, if you play the game too much. All proceeds will be donated to the Club a Dolphin Association of the Jersey Shore.