TMI Thursday: Sparkle Belly

NOTE: I thought I set this up to post at 9:15 am this morning, but apparently I didn't change the time, so it was set to post at 9:15 PM. Since I typed the whole thing out AND since I still wanted to wish Will a happy birthday, I went ahead and let it post, but it's too late to tie into Lilu's TMI Thursday. As such, I'll be pushing the Latin lesson back a few hours. Enjoy.

I will give you a little bit of a warning here: this isn't my usual brand of TMI Thursday fare. You see, yesterday, while I was beseeching you all for your pity (and entertaining myself with pictures of nurses)...I mean...beseeching you all for your pity for my sick children *shifty-eyed*, I failed to remind everyone that it was Big Willy's 32nd birthday. You might remember Big Willy from such birthday shout outs as this one.

So, I'm going to tell you a story that took place featuring Will. While it has a definite lack of bodily fluids, I does feature me naked and on film.

That caught your attention, didn't it?

While a senior roaming the hallowed halls of Saint Joseph's College, I lived in a single room on the first floor of Gallagher Hall. It was the "healthy living floor", which is hilarious considering I lived there. Some of the other perks of living on Gallagher first were Kody Hooker puking on your window nightly, a lovely view of the coal-fueled power plant, and all the watermelons you could smash. The other perk was that next door lived my good friend, Will.

As my days of being a Puma were winding down, my friend, Young Bob, faced a dilemma. You met Young Bob briefly here. Anyway, Young Bob was a Communications major, and in one of his classes, he was given a song and told to comprise a video to go along with it. Unfortunately, Young Bob is a bit like me: morbid and sarcastic with an eye toward the symbolic. The song was in-your-face-chip-chip-chipper-sugar-rush-sweet-and-happy. This was not going to be an easy task for him. The most footage he had was of a puppy chasing itself around a yard and a Wal-Mart greeter waving to him from the front of the store.

This is where I came in.

Young Bob knocked on my door with camera in hand. "I need help with this. I need you to...do...something...anything. It just has to be...fun."

"Like, bottle of chloroform and a black van fun?" I asked.

"Uh, no. More like something I can use for my video fun."

"Oh, right. Video evidence of the other would be dangerous." I thought for a second. "It is getting kind of late, though."

"I'll buy you Steak 'n' Shake."

"Deal. But, I can't do this alone."

So, I pounded on Will's door. Half-drunk on Russian history, I ripped him from his room, threw him into my car, tucked away thousands of dollars worth of expensive camera equipment, and we were off. Where? We didn't have a fucking clue, but we were off.

Forty-five minutes later, we were in Lafayette, IN. Our first stop was a sprawling Meijer store wherein resided a purple dinosaur kiddy ride that, I knew from a previous late-night trip, would support my frame. Digging through my pockets, I found a handful of pennies that I fed into the machine (it was one $0.01 per ride! Can you believe it?) and began lurching up and down, back and forth upon the back of this prehistoric mechanical bull.

And then I started to sing.

(to the tune of "Help me, Rhonda" by the Beach Boys):

Hump the dino!
Hump, hump the dino!
Yeah! *clap*
Hump the dino!
Hump, hump the dino!

It was at this point that a surly old woman, freshly escaped from some retirement home, shambled up to us and growled "What are you doing?"

"Humpin' the dino. What does it look like?" I responded, the ride still bucking feebly under me, the camera still rolling. "Mind you, I paid good money for this ride, and I intend to enjoy it."

"Not you," she uttered, a fog of smoke and halitosis belching from her maw. She pointed a gnarled finger toward Young Bob and his camera. Her nails had the sheen, texture and color of unpolished granite. "Him. What are you doing?"

"This is for a school project," Young Bob returned.

"You can't film in here," she shot back. A moth flew from her disheveled and misshapen coif.

"Seems like a good waste of perfectly free advertising," I stated. "Not to mention, all the money you're making off this sweet ride."

"Get out," she hacked, spittle flying over her lips. A froth formed at the edges of her mouth, and suddenly I wondered if she had had all her shots prior to escape.

Because Jesus hates a conflict, the dinosaur ground to a feeble halt, and I swear I heard it sigh audibly as I clambered down from the saddle. I patted it on the snout. "That'll do, Pig," I projected just loud enough. "You, too, dinosaur." A look of unbridled fury was shot to me by her sickly yellow eyes; I doubt she picked up on the literary reference.

Undaunted, we pushed forth toward the summit of Caradhras. Because civic planners drip with genius, a Wal-Mart hove into view as we left the doors of Meijer. A few quick moments later, and we were there. A quick tour of the facility showed there were no dinosaurs to hump ride, but there were unattended lawn tractors. Digging around in my trunk, I found a wide-brimmed straw hat that I stole from the costume shop after filming a western-themed TV show earlier in the semester. Plopping it on my head--and Will with his John Deere hat (or maybe it was Caterpillar...I don't recall)--Will and I sat on two lawn tractors and pantomimed driving and riding. We did this for a good fifteen minutes while Young Bob went about getting different angles and such for the shot.

As it was late, not much was open. We soon found ourselves in downtown Lafayette (such as it is), where the Tippecanoe County courthouse stands. Also, there is a cannon on the lawn of the Tippecanoe County courthouse. For some reason, Will and I thought it would be fun to spend ten minutes chasing each other around the cannon, giggling like school boys...all while being filmed. Finally, since Young Bob was not saying "Okay, that's enough!", I ran around to the fuse end of the cannon and straddled it. Sure enough, seconds later, Young Bob told us he had enough footage, and we could continue on.

Back in the car, we drove around for a while, unable to locate anywhere else to wreak havoc. I decided that, since we were in Lafayette anyway, I should do a psycho drive-by of an old girlfriend. Will, in a moment of inspiration, stripped off his shirt, and folded it around his head into an Instant Ninja Mask. I say inspired because my old girlfriend happened to live on the same street as a bunch of the Purdue frats...who were, of course, busy doing frat stuff. So, Will, bedecked in his Instant Ninja Mask, hung out of the car window and screamed "Behold, Infidels, the Gleaming Sword of Islam!" We were greeted with the typical drunken "Woo! Islam!" from the frats. Awesome.

After having soiled some memorial cannon and successfully stalking girlfriends of day gone by, we returned to St. Joe, but Young Bob still had half a tape of film that needed to be recorded. Trying to come up with some inspiration, Will and I both sat on my two-seater couch, arms folded, seeking something that would spark a creative bit of genius in us. What happened then was a good fifteen minutes of me cocking my head one way, and Will doing in the same, so that the two of us looked like our heads were connected by the same string.

Finally, unamused by that span of my life I'll never retrieve, I said, "We could do something with the grill."

This is where things went...weird.

Young Bob said, "Whatever you want." So, for some reason, I took off my clothes. And then I put on the same straw hat that I wore earlier for the lawnmower scenes. Decency got the better of me, and I wrapped a towel around my waist. Not to be undone, Will also stripped and wrapped a towel around his waist. Instead of a dopey straw hat, he put Instant Ninja Mask back on. Having nothing else at our disposal, Will grabbed a Wisconsin hat and we plopped that on the grill.

Some of the alumni of Gallagher Hall had put together some donations and made a really nice patio area for all of us right outside the west entrance to the hall. There was a deck and a nice brick patio which had a gas grill set up on it. This was the scene of our little display as Will and I stood there, acting for all the world like we were grilling the aforementioned hat, both still wearing only towels.

That's when this guy named Eric Schneider showed up. Schneider was a good guy, lived above me somewhere, but was originally from Chicago. And on this particular night, he showed up drunk. After a quick explanation of what was going on, Schneider started giving us directions like he was the director. Only thing was, he acted like he was directing porn.

"Will! Will, I need to see both nipples," he started. "Okay, good. Good good good. Now, I need a look of despair! LOOK OF DESPAIR! That's the money. Now, give me Sparkle Belly! Yes, yes, that's right. Sparkle Belly." And then Schneider started to sing.

"Sparkle Belly. Sparkle Belly.
Sparkle Belly, rub my nipples.
Sparkle Belly, rub my nipples.
Sparkle Belly. Sparkle Belly."
Of course, being the professionals and veterans of the stage that we were, we followed our directions perfectly. This went on for a few minutes. And then, the coup de grace: Schneider yelled, "And now, run off into the night!"

So, Will and I turned (still wearing only towels) and took off running into the night. We went about fifty yards, and then we heard "Now dive, DIVE!" So we did. In only towels. That didn't stay on so well.

Picking ourselves up, laughing until our sides hurt, and reaffixing the towels, we returned and Schneider and Young Bob gave us slow claps. "Excellent job! Well done." Schneider praised us. And then Young Bob: "The perfect thing was that, as you guys took off running and then dove, the tape ran out."

"Then, I guess this means we're done, right?" I asked.

"Yes," Young Bob confirmed.

"Alright. I'm going to go put some underwear on," I said.

"Jesus, dude, I didn't know you were naked under there," Schneider said. "I wouldn't have had you dive like that."

"It's alright. It was my choice," I offered.

"Whatever. I would have had you rip the towels off first and then go tearing off into the night."

So, there you go. There's the tale of my time spent on the camera naked. Like I said, it's not the usual sort of bodily-function-saturated Thursday post that you've come to love, but it did feature nipple rubbing. Young Bob offered to digitize the video and send it to me (he still has a copy, naturally dubbed "Sparkle Belly", which he watches from time to time for nostalgia and comedy's sake), but since I didn't ask Will, and I didn't feel comfortable slapping his nipples on the internet without his permission, you got the verbal story.

Fever in the Morning, Fever All Through the Night

Sorry, once again my humble abode has been stricken with a bout of illness not unlike those forecast for the End of Days. After having finally kicked the juicy little bug that had been lingering in my chest cavity and spewing forth its noxious fury into my sinuses, I was feeling great on Saturday. And it's not just the college football talking.

As the weekend wore on, though, my poor daughter began to become more and more and more pink in the cheeks, which is a sure sign of the onset of a fever. At first, we thought it was just because she refused to take her pink Notre Dame jersey off (seriously, she wore it for three days straight...I was beginning to have visions of that kid in Wisconsin who refused to take off his Favre jersey for the first thirteen years of his life or whatever). Finally, on Sunday, we had to face facts and realize that she was ill. Her sickness has lasted into today. Yesterday, I spent the day at home with her, which is why I was noticeably absent round these here parts.

Then, yesterday afternoon, after I walked up to the bus stop to get the little boy, he complained about how cold it was on the bus. And then he complained about a headache. And then he had a fever that was hot enough to melt lead, which correlates to about 100.7 degrees Fahrenheit, if you're playing along at home. That also meant that he's home from school now.

We had been holding out hope that they'd both hold off for about a week before contracting the current flu plague that is riding rampant through the school systems down here, but alas, it was not to be. They're both down, and with only a week to go in the current term. There's hopes that they could be back by the end of the week, though. I'd cross my fingers, but that would make it difficult to type.

However, I'm feeling as fine as frog hair, which is a change of pace after the past couple of weeks have seen me afflicted with and succumbing to the Ick. As I understand it, we aren't the only ones currently trying to stave off the pale rider and the waves of disease he leaves in his wake. Having gone through it, I can tell you, you don't want it. Good luck avoiding the cold, virulent touch of Disease.

And, as for college football...all I'll say is this: if I ever hear another pompous, cocksucking, arrogant, shit-for-brains Ohio State douchebag say anything about Notre Dame playing Navy, I'm going to punch them in the throat.

Oh, and one other thing: I'll have your Latin college football teams on Friday. I'm having way too much fun translating them.

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XXXVIII

Salvete, omnes! Let's all gather 'round and congratulate me for not making a sports-related post in quite some time. This one isn't really one either, because it's all Latin-centric, or something.

Anyway, last night--technically--the college football season got underway. A handful of teams got to play in the opener, but most of the action unfolds tomorrow, which is why I consider it the real start to college football season. At least for my college football tastes, that is.

While my undergrad wasn't exactly known as a powerhouse, I went to grad school at one of those places that drips with history, tradition, national championships and Heisman trophy winners. I mean, hell, there's been two movies made about Notre Dame football, both of which are at least somewhat famous. Plus, we have that sweet cameo in the original Die Hard. Not to mention, goddamned Rudy helped carry the Ring of Power to Mount motherfucking Doom!

Alright, alright, I'll settle down now. Let me tell you about the worst football game I ever went to. ND was playing USC my first year in grad school, and so my buddies and I decided to do what all American football fans do prior to the game: get good and liquored up. And, if you're drinking, you should be eating, right? Exactly. So, the night before the game, we went to the local Meijer store. If you're unfamiliar with Meijer, they're kind of the ones who started off this whole department store/grocery hybrid model that Super Target and Megalomart have both glommed on to. Anyway, I decided to get some cheap wine for my pre-game festivities, and since I went to Notre Dame, I figured why not try the Wild Irish Rose? I settled on some godawful flavor--I don't remember what it was, but it had ginseng in it, so not only was I going to get shitfaced ugly drunk, I would be fighting cancer...and apparently erectile dysfunction.

Anyway, I started out drinking the stuff, and it wasn't that bad. In fact, I was raving about how wonderful it was. About two thirds of the way through the bottle, I decided I was getting hungry. My friend, Dr. Assy, had been cooking up some kielbasi in sauerkraut (he was from eastern Pennsylvania...that should say it all right there). My friends, let me tell you, I put some hurting on some kielbasi that day. Of course, I couldn't let the last third of a bottle of Wild Irish Rose go to waste, so I polished that off, as well.

Only...I didn't feel so good. It was just about time for us to go stumbling walking over to the stadium when the Irish rose and the kielbasi started wrestling, and the only loser in that fight was my stomach. I had to purge myself of the contents of my stomach, and then we were off for the game. And, ohmygod, the steps at Notre Dame stadium never looked so effing steep. I had to haul myself up to the top of the stadium. By halftime of the game, I was hung over. By the end of the third quarter, I wanted to be dead.

Fortunately, a rain shower swept over the stadium, soaking us all and bringing sweet, sweet relief to my pounding head. If it hadn't been for that rain, I'm convinced I wouldn't be here, telling you this story. And, to make matters better, we actually somehow managed to beat USC (I believe the final score was 23-21, ND).

Lucky for me--and the blogosphere--I survived the game. And, as the college football season gets underway tomorrow, I'll be there, yelling this for one and all to hear:

Eamus, O hibernii pugnax!
Pronounced: "Aye-ah-moose, oh hee-bare-nee-ee poog-nahx!"

Translation in the hovertext!

If you want to know how to root for your team in Latin, leave me a note in the comments and I'll do my best. If it's something easy like tigers (tigres ("tee-grace")) or Wildcats (feles feras ("fay-lace fay-ross")), it should be no problem. If your mascot happens to be a Cornhusker...I make no promises.

Painting the Town Polka Dot

I'm not really here today. Instead, I'm on a plane, headed to Springfield, to view the famous Springfield Tire Fire and the now defunct Springfiled Monorail (too late, mom, the crowd has spoken...). Hey, it worked for Ogdenville.

Oh, what? Wrong Springfield? Ah, silly me. I wondered why no one was yellow with big bulgy eyes. Anyway, I'm having a coffee with fabulous blogger friend Sass. And then we're going to get mo.stoneskin (kinky) and we're all headed off to meet up with Scope and see Cowguy's band play. Ah, fuck it. You can read about my adventures yourself.

You should also cue up R.E.M.'s Losing my Religion for when you read it.

Aren't I clever?

Anyway, I shan't leave you without a fun little story while I'm off to Springfield, painting the town with Sass et. al. So, I'll tell you a little tale of what happened to me yesterday.

I got an email from my wife, the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Boudicca. She was telling me about her lunch, and how she decided a pickle would go perfectly with her sandwich and chips. So, she reached into the pickle jar and pulled out...a pickle. But it wasn't just any pickle. It was a pickle that reminded her...ahem...of me.

Now, there's a euphemism for masturbation one uses from time to time: "jerkin' your gherkin". I had no idea how dangerously close to real life this could be. See for yourself.

Nice, huh?

Though, I have to worry if my wife thinks something so small which is green, spotted and knobby reminds her of me. What's that I feel? Oh, it's the beginnings of a complex. Fantastic.

And just for your personal edification: she ate it. Popped that thing in her mouth and swallowed it right down.

Now I know she was lying when she said it reminded her of me: she didn't even dip it in mayonnaise first!

The Day the Republic Died

Robitussin is the opiate of the masses. Of course, by that, I'm implying that "masses" means my lungs and "opiate" means "thing that makes my lungs feel slightly better and less wheezy and somewhat clear of the thick, yellow lung butter that flies up my trachea when I cough".

As you might remember, a week ago or so, I was begging for your pity telling you about how I was afflicted with some mild form of palsy pox plague head cold. Well, I'm afflicted anew, or again, or I'm still afflicted, and now it's moved from my head down into my chest. Or maybe I've caught something new. Whatever it is, this hanta virus rubeola typhoid lung infection has stifled my creativity for the past few days. More than that, it's inspired me to lay around bemoaning the sad state of affairs that have led me to being stricken by the Plague, which has seriously cut into my time for writing this blog and for me to be out sexually harassing you in your comments sections reading and commenting on your blogs.

See, the thing about this illness is that it's been holding me down, giving me Dutch rubs for two weeks. Usually, it's my wife who is sick for two weeks, whereas I get a sniffly nose for a day or so, and then I'm back to trying to get her to engage in some sexual egress, despite the thermometer sticking out of her mouth and the sickly blush brought to her nose and cheekbones.

It's very fitting that I'm still dying of sickness and disease, because today is the day that the Roman Republic died. Hooray! Okay, so maybe it wasn't today per se (did you like how I worked a little Latin into that?), but today is the anniversary of the Battle of Actium, fought in 31 BC. The forces of Octavian--he who had been adopted by his great-uncle Julius Caesar--routed Cleopatra's army, which was assisted by forces that were loyal to Mark Antony (who was Caesar's second cousin). In case you weren't paying attention during history class and in case you haven't read Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra (tut, tut), you'll do well to remember that Antony was boning Cleopatra.

Now, when Caesar was assassinated, Octavian, Antony and this other cat named Marcus Aemilius Lepidus set themselves up as political allies. They set about hunting down Cassius and Brutus for the murder of Caesar. After that was completed, things fell apart when Antony and Octavian came to a disagreement--most likely over who was going to going to navigate the Egyptian Queen's Nile Delta, if you know what I'm saying--and the dispute erupted into civil war within the Roman Republic.

Actually, truth be told, Antony was married to Octavian's sister, so when Octavian heard that Antony was plowing Cleopatra, he was none too pleased. In order to keep Cleopatra's trap shut, Antony ceded large tracts of lands in the eastern part of the Republic to her and her son. Cleopatra ruled Egypt jointly with her son, Ptolemy Caesar, also known as Caesarion (Little Caesar). He wasn't called Little Caesar just because of his awesome pizzapizza deals. In fact, Caesarion's father was none other than Julius Caesar, which of course made him a half-cousin to the men vying for power, but also made him a political threat. When word came back to Rome that big chunks of the eastern part of the Republic had just been given to someone else, the Senate was up in arms.

Seizing this opportunity, Octavian called Antony on it, and there began a power struggle. However, Octavian had control of the western parts of the Republic, which included Rome, so it wasn't too difficult to demonize Antony, and soon people were calling for Antony's blood.

Things came to a head on September 2nd, 31 BC at the Battle of Actium, which was a sea battle fought just off the west coast of Greece near the Ionian Sea. Antony's forces were routed, which essentially secured all of Rome for Octavian. Not one to leave enemies in his wake, Octavian pursued Antony and Cleopatra. Again, their forces clashed near Alexandria in Egypt, this time in a land battle. And by "clashed" I mean that Antony's forces saw they were outnumbered 2-to-1, causing them to immediately defect or surrender to Octavian as he approached.

All the while, Antony is watching from a tower in Alexandria. You can almost hear him screaming "sonuvabitch!" from that tower window as he watched the white flag wave (Antony's forces were largely comprised of soldier from the Italian peninsula, so I can't even levy any insults toward Gaul here). Having had enough, Antony did the honorable thing and fell on his sword--badly. Apparently, during the course of falling on his blade, he...missed...merely giving himself a flesh wound. If this guy were a baseball franchise, he'd be the Chicago Cubs. The badly-wounded Antony was taken back to Cleopatra's chambers, where he lingered for a bit, but finally succumbed to his self-inflicted wound, dying in J. Lo's Cleopatra's arms...leaving her to face Octavian alone.

Nothing says "love" quite like leaving your paramour to deal with an angry political rival and his enormous army.

Cleopatra immediately begged Octavian for mercy. Despite her pleas for mercy, Octavian opted for the non-compassionate route, and told Cleopatra she would have "a special role" in Octavian's triumphant return to Rome. He did this while killing and butchering her son--essentially turning "Little Caesar" into "Littler Pieces of Caesar." I told you he was not one to leave an enemy behind.

"Fuck this," Cleopatra said, and killed herself, either by sticking her hand in a jar containing an asp or by simply ingesting a poison. Either way, she was dead, and so was the Roman Republic. Octavian returned to Rome triumphant, having seized direct control of all the lands commanded by the Roman forces. Elated, the Senate rewarded him with the name "Augustus" and the title "Princeps" (First Citizen). As there was no one left to challenge his power and authority, Augustus then became the first Roman Emperor. Through his wanton slaughter of Antony's supporters, the fifty Roman legions at his back, and the massive armada he commanded, Augustus began what was known as the "Pax Romana" (Roman Peace), which is still the longest continuous period of peace in continental Europe's history. It essentially lasted from 30 BC to 476 AD when Odoacer deposed the last Roman Emperor, Romulus Augustulus.

So, you'll forgive me if I've been a little lax in the whole posting thing, because I've been sick. And, I hope you forgive me for the little wrap up here at the end, because it is truly, truly terrible. In case you can't tell, you should sing this to Don MacLean's American Pie, thus making it truly groan-worthy:

So, say 'bye-bye' to the Republic, guys,
Antony was partin' Cleopatra's thighs,
And Octavian started spreading these vile lies,
That Antony was messing with his family ties,
Saying this would the day that Marcus dies,
This would be the day that he dies...

I swear, it was the Robitussin talking. Now, pass me another little shot glass full of the stuff and let me get back to sleep.