The Sleeping Bear

I have a job, which is hard to believe, I know. Since I work 9 to 10 hours a day, it’s inevitable that I have to use the bathroom facilities. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except the bathroom is outside our office and shared by every Johnson, Dick, and Visanthe who wanders into our building. UPS dudes, my co-workers, the few folks remaining in the mortgage joint next door, all share the same two-urinal, one-toilet-stall wonderment we call the first floor bathroom.

I know your mom told you to share. Well, I’m here to tell you sharing a bathroom isn’t something that should be done. The etiquette in that bathroom is proof of the cultural decline of America. Screw the collapse of our free market economy or peak oil, historians will look back at the shared bathroom etiquette as the true beginning of the end. I’m not being hyperbolic – the shit I’ve seen (unfortunately, literally) in just three short years has me wondering what the hell happened.

Don’t believe me? Here’s my proof:

• Proof Point #1 – Every time I walk into the bathroom – be it 7 a.m. or 6 p.m. – there’s a puddle under the nearest urinal. Now, call me crazy, but I have no problem hitting the urinal. It’s pretty big. And pretty wide. A swaying Stevie Wonder could hit the damn thing. So why can’t anyone else?At first I chalked it up to condensation. Or faulty plumbing. But then I realized that condensation typically isn’t yellow. Nor does it smell like urine.
• Proof Point #2 – Cell phones are a great invention. They allow you to talk to anyone damn near anywhere. Including the first floor bathroom.”Uh, yeah, I’m calling because I’d like to order a pizza.”Seriously? You’re sitting there expelling the pizza you had last night, the stench of which is making me gag, and decided it was time for another? It couldn’t wait until you were back at your desk, car or cardboard box?”Can I get extra anchovies?”
• Ahh, it all makes sense now.
• Proof Point #3 – As a wise man once said, you have to know when to hold ’em. Meaning, if you’re standing next to me and taking a leak, don’t start farting. Not cool. Know when to hold ’em there buddy. And if you do let one leak, don’t say “Better check my drawers on that one.” Really not cool.
• Proof Point #4 – Speaking of talking, how about you not do it at all? My favorite was when I walked in and a dude taking a piss at the urinal was having a conversation with the guy dropping the kids off at the pool in the stall.
  “Did you watch Jersey Shore last” – grunt – “night?”
  “Nope. But I TIVO’d it.”
  “It was awesome – one of the guido bitches”  plop, splash  “got punched in the face!”

  New rule – no dropping spoilers while dropping soilers, OK?

• Proof Point #5 – Possibly the oddest thing I see in the first floor bathroom, though: Boogers. I guess when you’re emptying your colon, it’s also a good time to empty your nostrils. And by no means should you use the toilet paper next to you – just pick and flick, or pick and wipe on the wall. Cause dried boogers are fun to look at.

Those are just five proof points and I’m sure if I inspected the women’s bathroom I could come up with many, many more (soiled toilet paper in the garbage? Really?). As far as this shitting pisser is concerned, the decline of Western civilization has begun and the proof is in the chocolate pudding.

“He just pissed on my leg!”

A recent viewing of Marley and Me had me thinking fondly of dogs past and present. My family had a bit of a T fetish when I was growing up – Tawny (#1), Trump, Toby, Tawny (#2) – all dogs that shaped my childhood. And then when I grew up I picked up the P gang – Piper, Petey and Pearl – which soon became the OPP – Oliver, Piper and Pearl. I guess you could say I’ve been living doggystyle my entire life.

With all those dogs, man do I have stories. There was Trump, a jet black labrador with a pair of testicles that would make a blue whale blush. He knew how to use them, too, impregnating our golden retriever a couple times, as well as the neighbor’s black lab. Rumor has it he was Travis Henry’s inspiration. Heck, if there was a dog in heat in Stearns County, no kennel, gate, cage or fence could keep him from gettin’ his freak on. No lie – I saw him climb out of his kennel – which had to be a good 8 feet high, jump to the ground, and make a mad sprint to neighbors, where he pulled another Houdini, climbed the neighbor’s 10-foot-high kennel, lit some candles, threw on some Luther Vandross and got it on.

Rabbits used to kneel before him and call him the chosen one because of his sexual prowess. Even in old age he let his balls do the talking. Don’t believe me? I found him bloody in the middle of the road one day, presuming he bounced off someone’s car. Turns out he was trying to get with some high-class bitch down the road and the owner blasted him with a shotgun. A trip to the vet, some permanent internal bling and a few war scars later and he was up to the same old tricks.

Not only was he literally ballsy, but he figuratively had a set of beach balls. Picture it: My dad had a Harley and the requisite Harley dude friends. One of them stopped on over one day and was festooned with the usual Harley attire – leather everywhere, including the chaps. Trump was intrigued, and walked over to take a closer look. As Harley dude was gabbing away about how he stabbed a dude in a bar, Trump calmly sniffed his leg, gave him the once over, and then proceeded to lift his leg and piss all over his leather chaps. The best part – the guy was so stunned that Trump had finished and calmly sauntered away before said biker could give him a good swift kick.

Yeah, Trump was a man’s man if there ever was one. But I’ve also had the exact opposite – Piper. We picked her up from a breeder when she was about four and it took her weeks to even move in our presence. For a second there I thought we’d picked up a stuffed dog.

We figured it would just take awhile for her to get acclimated to her new surroundings. About three years in she actually slightly moved her tail when we talked to her – it was a moment that brought tears of joy to our eyes. She actually liked us!

She also likes to eat shit. Lots of it. She’s not the biggest fan of regular dog food, but if it’s gone through another dog’s intestine and sat on the ground for a couple days, it suddenly becomes equivalent to an M&M.

What she didn’t like, however, was stuffed animals staring at her. Within a week, she had chewed the eyes out of the toy bunny we gave her for companionship. We figured we’d try another toy, this time a duck, only to come home to find she had given it the old Stevie Wonder.

Shit-eating and leg-pissing aside, I have to admit that I enjoy having a dog around. They don’t judge (probably because they shit-eat and leg-piss and figure they don’t really have the right), they don’t complain and they’re genuinely happy to see me. Happy enough to piss on someone’s leg and have a poop-tart in my honor.

Got a crazy dog story to share? Add it to the comments before I let Trump water your leg.

Last week, as a couple of really rich TV personalities were sniping at each other about journalistic integrity and who’s to blame for the recession, I got to thinking: Blame? Screw that, who should I congratulate for this financial meltdown. Here’s why:

1. Gas is cheaper than a 400 pound hooker. Not that I’ve been in the market for a 400 pound hooker lately, so I can’t confirm that statement with much certainty. But I’m guessing the price of a 400 pound hooker hasn’t changed much since my foray into the flab in the late 90s. Last summer, pre-recession, I was paying between $3.60 and $4.20 for a gallon of gas. For a guy who gets 25 miles a gallon and has a 30 mile commute to work, that was starting to add up. Since the stock market began tanking last fall, a gallon of gas is about 50% of that. For a guy who dumped $40 a week for the privilege of sitting in traffic for a couple hours a day, that’s some nice ching. Probably enough ching to get a 400 pound hooker.

2. I’m neighborless – and loving it! Don’t get me started on my old neighbors. They used to tie their dog up in my backyard, screwed their satellite dish into my fence and spoke very little English. And then along came the recession and – poof! – they disappeared faster than ARod in a big game. Their house was foreclosed, and resold at half the price. But apparently to ghosts, because no one has lived there since, unless you count the rusted 70s era Chevy truck in the driveway. That means me and the golden get to use their backyard for Frisbee retrieving. The recession basically doubled the size of my property – for free!

3. Deflation isn’t just for your enemy’s tires. What I’ve noticed is that during a recession businesses are desperate to sell their goods. If you can manage to keep your job and level of pay, you’re actually in pretty decent shape. For me, that means the staples of my diet – Milk, yogurt, cottage cheese and black jellybeans – have probably dropped in price 20-30%. Sure, that’s caused me to eat 20-30% more and drop 20-30% more green, milky splatters into my toilet bowl, but what’s life without green, milky splatters?

4. Annoying workmates: Here one day, gone the next! We all have those annoying workmates. You know, the ones that talk all day about how wonderful they are at their job. Leaving little time for them to actually do their job. Thankfully, during a recession, the ones getting paid to lick the CEO’s ass start to notice who’s doing their job and who isn’t. And the annoying ones get the old pink sliparoo.

5. Painful gunshot wounds – eliminated! My commuting time has been cut by 33%. Not 34% or 32%, but 33%. With unemployment higher than Gary Busey, that means fewer folks commuting to work. Fewer folks cutting me off. Fewer folks shooting at me when I give them the finger. Fewer bullets in my ulna. And I think fewer bullets in my ulna is something we can all rally around.

For all these reasons, I’d like a give a shout out to everyone the pundits are telling me is to blame for the current economic crisis. What you’ve done for me and my family was a godsend. Thank you!

“Amos, you’re awesome!”

Well, maybe Amos wasn’t quite as awesome at choosing outfits as he was at removing the door pin from my old, decrepit Frigidaire refrigerator. I first met Amos when he arrived at my front door, his Caribbean accent not exactly matching his faded-blue snowsuit and fluffy, ear-flapped stocking cap. He was a walking contradiction – an equatorial accent on a man who looked like he’d be comfortable sleeping in an igloo.

“Hi, my name is Amos,” he said, extending his hand. I soon learned that Amos was a happy chap, as he broke into a smile upon spying my three dogs staring at him.

“Look at that one! He’s just chilling on the couch!” he exclaimed as he made his way to my kitchen to inspect my old fridge and determine the best exit strategy. After taking a few measurements, Amos was off to get some tools to pry off the fridge door.

And that’s when his partner in fridge delivery, Joel (sounds like Joelle) showed up. Joel was sporting some solid facial hair and dressed a little snappier than Amos. Of course, snappy is a relative term akin to saying N’Sync is a better boy band than the Backstreet Boys. Either way, they’re both sucky boy bands.

I have to admit, I was mesmerized by the tin foil – yes, tin foil – adorning the back of Joel’s baseball cap. Being the polite person that I am, I didn’t ask Joel the obvious question – Why the fuck do you have a two inch rectangle of tin foil on the back of your baseball cap? But, judging by his Pineapple Express chuckle and the way he eyed up all the munchable foods on my counter, I’m guessing it had something to do with his desire to deflect the government’s mind-reading wavegun.

Joel’s duty was to remove the doors from the old fridge so they could squeeze it between my countertop and the wall and out the back door. He had no problem with the freezer door, but the fridge door was a problem – one final screw was hidden behind the door pin and hard to get at.

“Amos, do you have that extender for my screwdriver?” His solution was to remove the screw using an extender. Amos had other ideas.

“Let me go get it. But we can just use a pliers to unscrew the pin. We don’t need to access that screw.”

“But the pin is slippery. There’s nothing to grip,” Joel complained.

But Amos wasn’t deterred by Joel’s nancying. He reappeared a short time later, pliers in hand. And much to Joel’s delight, Amos was indeed able to grip the pin, pull it out, and give Joel a clear path to the final screw.

“Amos, you’re awesome!” an awestruck Joel exclaimed.

Door off, it was time to strap up and get the fridge out the door. As Joel moved behind the fridge, he spied my wife and dogs on the couch. He channeled Cassanova’s spirit, smoothly cooing “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. I didn’t see you hiding there.” and then following it up with some chitchat about how well behaved the dogs were.

Amos, not wanting to be left out of the conversation, agreed. “My boy would love that little dog. He’s just chilling on the couch. He’s so chill. He and my son have a lot in common.”

With that, they were off, making easy work of the old fridge and hauling in my shiny new Samsung. A slight mishap with my dining room light aside, it went smoothly.

Which meant it was time for Amos to bid a fond farewell. He bid a slightly creepy “I’ll be back for your dog!” and followed that up with an “I’m serious.” when we laughed at what we surmised was a joke. A quick smile, a nod, and Awesome Amos was off into the cold Minnesota air for more delivery hijinks.

I like to push my heart to the extreme, defying death by bicycling for miles on end, daring to drive a heart-pumping 75 in a 70 and worshipping at the altar of heartbreakingly bad Minnesota sports teams. But even I had some moments of trepidation today as I stared into the beanie eyes of death incarnate, knowing there was a chance my heart could falter and lead to my untimely demise.

Let’s start at beginning. Rumor had it a restaurant in the area served a meaty concoction so mouth-wateringly huge, so fantastically carnivorous, so scarily fatty that ingesting it could cause instant arterial blockage and certain death. That place? Jimmy’s in Vadnais Heights. That product? The Hamdog.

What’s a Hamdog? Apart from Fugu, quite possibly the world’s most dangerous food. But unlike Fugu, damn f’n tasty. As Jimmy’s no-frills menu says, the Hamdog is a 1/2 pound burger wrapped around a hotdog, topped with chilli, onion and cheddar cheese and served on a hoagie bun. The menu calls it “Enough Meat to Satisfy Anyone.” I call it “Enough Meat to Make Ron Jeremy Feel Inadequate.”

Defibrillator in hand, we made the trek to Jimmy’s to defy death. Located in a stripmall at the intersection of 35E and County Rd E in Vadnais Heights, Jimmy’s isn’t much to look at from the outside. The clean, dimly-lit interior features numerous big-screen TVs, most of which were showing Hockey Day in Minnesota. We slid into a booth in the corner, said a few prayers and waited for the waitress to come, take our order, and ultimately bring us what may have been our last meal.

“Are you ready to order?”

We nodded in assent. My wife ordered the walleye sandwich. The waitress turned to me. This was it – my moment of truth. Some men blink in the face of death – but not me. I took a deep breath, turned to the waitress and shouted “I’ll have the Hamdog!” Then let my gaze wander triumphantly across the room as everyone within earshot jerked to attention, mouths agape. One woman, obviously unnerved, clutched her cell phone and practiced dialing 9-1-1 in preparation for the inevitable. The waitress, in the midst of writing my order on a piece of paper, muttered “Nice!” under her breath. I was everyone’s new hero.

Within minutes the Hamdog was before me in all it’s meaty glory, garnished with a side of barbecue potato chips, some lettuce, a pickle and a tomato. Even better, I had to fill out a form with my name and phone number before I ate it so I could presumably be entered to win a free t-shirt proclaiming the glory of the Hamdog. I didn’t flip it over, but I’m guessing there was some legalese and a waiver should I choke out on the Hammer.

And it was on. So on. It was love at first bite. As I sunk my teeth into the Hamdog, I have to admit I shivered a little. It was slightly orgasmic. Seriously, the dude who one day thought “This hot dog just isn’t enough. What if I wrapped a shitload of dead cow around it and then topped it off with more dead cow, chili beans cheese and spices?” is my new hero. Screw Cialis – if you have erectile dysfunction just hop on over to Jimmy’s and sink your teeth into a Hamdog – you’ll be pleasing your wife or significant other in no time.

Before I knew it, I was halfway through my Hamdog, needing just a few fists to the chest to jumpstart my heart. A waiter walked by, did a double-take, stopped and said “You did the HD, eh? Nice. How is it?” With my mouth full of PETA’s worst nightmare, I mumbled “Great!”

But in all reality, I was done. My stomach was full. I was starting to get gassed (figuratively and literally). It was time to throw in the towel and call it a day. I knew when I was beaten, waived over the waitress and asked for a doggy basket for my H-dog.

In the end, I didn’t finish the entire Hamdog, but I did manage to maintain consciousness through the entire event. I had stared down the beast, and though in the end I did blink just a little, I conquered my fear of arterial blockage and scarfed down 3/4 of a Hamdog in one sitting. To me, that earns a bit of a boastful “Who’s yer daddy?” That’s right, me.

The Business End of a Hamdog.