There's Something Fishy Going On Here ...

I don’t think it’s any big secret that I have, as a general policy, a goal of setting as low of expectations in other people as is humanly possible.  In a phenomenon known among psychologists as “Achievement Relativity,” this renders even the most mundane accomplishments on my part on a par with creating desktop fusion.  Some of my proudest moments come when I hear someone say something like “Hey, Dead Acorn!  You tied your shoe on the very first try!  Good job!” without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

I had a fairly good pay-off last night over dinner – one of the low expectations that I’ve set is that no one thinks I’ll ever try any food out of my normal (and limited) dietary standards.  And of relevance to the current tale, I wouldn’t say that I hate seafood, because technically, Skipper’s Fish & Chips fillets are seafood, but outside of those, I would absolutely say that I hate seafood.  And very high on the list of hated seafood lies raw seafood … it’s fair to say that I’m not a sushi fan.  (As far as meat goes, I mainly stick to chicken … not because I like chickens, however; on the contrary, I hate them.  A number of chickens were involved in one of the tragic failed romances of my youth, and I have sworn to devour them even unto my last breath.  Damn you, chickens!  Plus, chicken tacos …. mmmMMMmm … they’re delicious!)

Anyway, I got to have dinner with The Live Acorn last night, and I was suggesting various places we might go (“Chicken Shack?”  “No …” “The Rooster Dome?”  “No …” “Poultry-Geist?”  “Dad, NO!”).  I knew where this was headed, as she loves ... loves ... sushi.  Finally, I bite the bullet, and agree.  To be honest, I was certain that they’d have something that wouldn’t actually make me shudder just thinking about it.

Ummm … no.

Really, Fancy Schmancy Sushi Restaurant?  You can’t keep one goddamned chicken in the back for your wussier more discriminating patrons?  You can’t keep a corn-dog in the freezer in case of emergencies?  Well, add one more to the list of reasons I don’t go south of State Street, boy howdy!

So The Live Acorn, fighting back tears, quietly offered to eat somewhere else.  “It’s okay, dad …” she said, in between stifled sobs.  “The Wing Nut is just around the corner.”  She arose slowly, staring at the ground.

“Hey, Live Acorn?"  "Yeah, dad?"  "I’ll be fine.  This is just fine.”

I spoke the words with the tone of a true martyr, someone willing to make an heroic sacrifice for the sake of his beloved and only daughter.  She looked at me with eyes that said “All of the dads on this planet who drink out of coffee mugs that say ‘World’s Greatest Father’ are lying to themselves.  They’re all just playing for 2nd place.”

So yeah, I ordered whatever looked like it had the most spices, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that “wasabi” is Japanese for “horseradish.”  Between that and the numerous cans of Kinmugi, I could barely taste that squid, or carp, or whatever the hell they use.  And afterward, I got more high praise from The Live Acorn, a “Good job!” text from The EMDAMOTLA*, and general accolades from all those who heard about my selfless act of love and generosity.  Ah, the magic of low expectations.

Look up Achievement Relativity in the new DSM-V when it's published.  I'm the case study.

* Ex-Mrs-Dead-Acorn-Mother-Of-The-Live-Acorn

If You Billed It, They Will Come

There are many things in this world that stick in my craw – someone verbalizing the fact that a no-hitter is potentially unfolding in the 7th inning; doctors who won’t perform life-saving surgery on a child because not enough people “Liked” that child’s mother's pleading Facebook status update; when I can’t find my shoes and I have to wrap my feet in duct tape to go to work … I just get so infuriated!  I’m getting a little worked up just thinking about them!

One thing that REALLY gets my goat, however, is people who don’t listen to authority.  This shouldn’t be a difficult issue: if you’re told to do something, then do it.  If you’re told to not do something, then don’t do it.  I’m sure you agree, and I’m confident that you’ll understand my anger when I describe what I encountered just yesterday evening.

I was walking through the Hyde Park area of Boise, enjoying a lovely night, unwinding after an afternoon of music downtown.  Had you challenged me at that point to imagine a way to make life better, I would have been hard-pressed to think of anything.  My beer was nearly half gone, but that’s really about it.

Well, my bubble of joy was soon burst, as I strode by an empty store front with a number of “POST NO BILLS” signs in the windows.  I simply cannot fathom how this could be misconstrued - how could it be more clear?  But someone ... someone didn’t understand.  Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would almost think that they were purposely going out of their way to disobey!

Take a look:

Above:  The text actually SAYS "Don't Tell Me What To Do!"  Damn scofflaws.

Above:  Methinks the culprit could use a good billy-clubbing.

Above:  My rage was bill-ding.

Above:  I’m guessing this blog post isn’t everything it was billed as.

Above:  Some men just want to watch the world burn.

I sincerely hope this urban terrorist is brought to justice.  What kind of world would it be if people didn’t just do as they’re told?  Anarchy!  Chaos!  Cats and dogs, laying down together!

Society is crumbling before our eyes, and no one is doing a damn thing about it.

In order of appearance:  Bill Buckner, Bill Maher, Bill Gates, Bill Of Rights, Bill Clinton, I'm Just A Bill, Bill Murray, Bill Cosby, Buffalo Bill, Mr. Bill, Bill Nye The Science Guy, Bill O'Reilly.  Also posted but not shown:  Utility Bill, Bill Shakespeare.

I Got The Shaft ...

Being a little on the white-trashy side is something of which I’m neither proud nor embarrassed – it’s simply one aspect of who I am.  Some people have red hair, some people have their patellae on the backs of their knees so that they have to have special chairs made in order to sit down, and some people are just a little white-trashy.

For my reader who hasn’t had the traumatic and emotionally scarring expericnce pleasure of visiting Casa de Acorn, I’ve provided some visual evidence ...

Below is a view from my front steps … sure, the irises (irii?) are okay, but the flower bed is clearly untended, and the hose, which is actually a conglomeration of segments from a number of hoses joined together, lies strewn willy-nilly on the lawn and has more than a passing resemblance to the Gordian Knot.  The tree has a rope tied to it to which the Hell Hound gets attached when we’re lounging about; the rope is knotted together in several places, as she snaps it with great regularity – there’s really no stopping 80 lbs of idiot when she wants to scare the hell out of neighborhood children on bicycles say hi to passersby and their dogs.

Here’s a shot of the driveway in front of the garage.  Note the propane cans scattered around the grill ('cause Safety First!), and the 2’x4’ remnants from the shed project (which is proceeding right on track, with completion anticipated around August ‘14).  Power tools out front are considered de rigueur among the W-T set, of course.  The hose is not confined to the lawn, as you can see.

Every house needs a Home Security System, and mine consists of a menacing Guard Flamingo, darkened by years of exposure to the harsh Idaho elements.  Girl Scouts tremble in fear as they stammer through their cookie sales pitch … ain’t nobody gonna fuck wit’ Bad Bob, yo.

All of this is well and good, and as I said, I’m neither proud nor embarrassed, but I had a realization the other day that may have me at least attempting to class up the joint just a wee bit.  I recently obtained a round outdoor table for my patio (free on craigslist, of course – that’s how we W-Ters roll …) – one of those with a hole in the middle and in the base to accommodate the restaurant-style umbrella that I’ve had for some time (also free, from the pub during a remodel, and requiring only slight repair).  Here’s a view from inside the house:

Yes, that’s right: there’s a giant pink penis on my front patio.  I’m not sure what to do, other than to leave it open all the time.  I’ve already heard the mailman refer to my house as “the Johnson place up on the corner,” and my neighbors saying “he should clean up that yard.  What a dick.”

Though I’m pretty sure they said that before …