Category: Funny Business

The mainstream media underplayed a huge story last week – one that hits pretty close to home for me.

Seems a 34-year-old Wisconsin man took an axe to his TV, living room and car because he thought his wife damaged his action figures.

Was that reaction a bit extreme?

That depends.

How valuable were the action figures in question?

I ask because they weren’t identified in the story, and the dude might’ve had a really cool collection of figures that could be difficult (if not impossible) to replace.

For example, back in the mid-1960s Hasbro introduced G.I. Joes featuring what was billed as “lifelike hair and beard.”

Now, unless your life included fiberglass hair, this was a case of false advertising. Nonetheless, G.I. Joes of various skin and hair colors were sold, and over a two-year period I used my allowance to purchase them all.

One, however, proved to be quite elusive; a G.I. Joe with lifelike hair but no beard.

I had seen it in a television commercial but never in a store, and for months I looked high and low for this almost mythical G.I. Joe. Obviously, options were limited because back in the 1960s, there was no Internet – and the only way to travel through time and purchase them on eBay was to be an English person lucky enough to have a police box land in his or her yard.*

*This is a “Doctor Who” joke. Please insert piped-in laughter.

But finally – at long last – I was wandering through a Kmart while my mom was looking for go-go boots and an ironing board and there he was – a clean-shaven G.I. Joe.

I think I was 8, and I’m not sure I had ever been that excited. I had a warm, tingling sensation I hadn’t felt since my bed-wetting days, and rushed to grab him off the shelf.

After I gave the nice person at the counter all my money, I remember performing a festive dance right there in the store.

I called it the “G.I. Joe With Lifelike Hair But No Beard Dance.”

It was spectacular.

Afterwards, I couldn’t wait to get home and have clean cut G.I. Joe meet the rest of my “fighting men from head to toe.”

What adventures they’d have together!

(I should probably note at this point that even though these action figures were marketed as “soldiers,” I rarely used them in war games. Sometimes they’d work for a private sector company fighting criminals and/or monsters, and one time they ran a car dealership. That playscape didn’t last too long because basically all they did was stand around smoking cigarettes and filling out paperwork. The best part was cupping my hands over my mouth and saying. “G.I. Joe … please come to the sales department. G.I. Joe … you’re wanted in sales.”)

Anyway, these truly were my prized possessions, and I always made sure to clean them up before carefully placing them in their toy box each night.

Now, back to this guy in Wisconsin.

I’m not saying I approve of his actions, but I can certainly understand them.

I don’t know how I would’ve reacted if my wife had harmed my G.I. Joes. Of course at age 8 I was unmarried (although I did live in the Deep South so, technically, I probably could’ve made it happen if I’d been ready to settle down).

Sadly, once I stopped playing with my G.I. Joes, I didn’t have sense enough to put them in storage in hopes of them one day becoming collector’s items. I think I actually donated them to a toy drive.

And I was in my 40s, so I probably should’ve known better.

However, I still fancy myself as a collector, although now my passion is McFarlane sports figures.

I have NFL, NHL and MLB players – I even have three custom Canadian Football League figures and several from defunct leagues.

Needless to say, I don’t play with them because they’re far too valuable. Plus none of them are poseable, and I don’t really have enough space in my playroom.

But what would happen if I thought my wife damaged them?

I really don’t think she would and, regardless, I certainly wouldn’t take an axe to our home and car.

I mean, we don’t even own an axe.

Today, the scale reads 161.6 pounds.

Last week, the scale read 161.6 pounds.

Late last month, the scale read 161.6 pounds.

Is that good?

Yeah, sorta.

My original goal was 170, which I hit with no problem. Then I readjusted it to 165, which took a little work, but wasn’t that big a challenge.

Finally, I decided I wanted to tip the scales at 160, because with my height (5-9) and build (like a chimpanzee), 160 is considered my ideal weight.

First, however, I owe you a backstory.

Last summer – after spending several years as a healthy eater and averaging 163 pounds – I fell in with the wrong crowd and by “wrong crowd” I mean delicious food.

I certainly wasn’t going hungry before then, and I enjoyed what I ate for the most part.

I stayed away from candy, cakes, pies and ice cream, and ate quite a bit of fruit. Thing is, after you steer clear of “evil” food for a while, you forget about it.

But one day – I don’t really recall when – I was in a bakery-heavy grocery store when I heard a box of lemon squares call out to me.

Not wanting to be rude, I walked toward them to find out what they wanted and, it turns out, they wanted me to eat ‘em.

So I did.

I figured having a tasty dessert once in a while wouldn’t do any harm and, lord, these things are good. I’m not sure what’s in them, but they weigh about 75 pounds apiece and are covered in confectioners sugar.

After eating one you’re compelled to eat another (they come four to a box) and by the time you finish you look like Tony Montana in “Scarface” – right after he’s snorted the pile of coke off his desk.

I haven’t checked, but I’m guessing a four pack of lemon squares is about, oh, 6,000 calories.

But damn, they’re good.

Yet if that had been the end of it, I would’ve been OK. I could’ve looked at it like someone who went on a weekend bender but then straightened out after a couple days of detox.

But I was kidding myself because lemon squares are a gateway dessert and the gates flew wide-ass open.

A day later I was back at another grocery store, this time coveting strawberry cake with cream cheese icing.

Placed in an environmentally unfriendly plastic container, its label clearly stated that this one hunk of cake was 930 calories.

You know how long it took me to eat it?

Three minutes. I know because I was looking at the clock in my car while I ate it.

Chewing started at 11:47 a.m., chewing ended at 11:50 a.m.

And soon, the urge to eat like I was Scooby Doo and Shaggy overtook me.

I started buying two boxes of lemon squares and multiple pieces of strawberry cake.

Pop-Tarts returned to the rotation, and I’m talking the cherry frosted kind.

Did you know you can put a big ol’ slab of butter on a Pop-Tart and heat it in the oven?

You can, and I did.

But it wasn’t just sweets. My insatiable desire for Satan’s Snacks extended to big bags of mixed nuts and giant wedges of cheese – the large kind used to lure wharf rats.

A body built to carry 165 pounds was now hauling close to 190, and I began to look like a pregnant, mutant chimp.

We come in all different shapes and sizes, and some people look good with extra weight, but I’m not one of those people.

The lowest point came when I was lounging on the futon eating Lay’s potato chips and I could see my blurred reflection in the TV screen.

Had Princess Leia been at my feet, I would’ve sworn I was staring at Jabba The Hutt.

So Scotty The Hutt decided he had to get back in shape.

My wife got a FitBit for me so I could track calories and chart exercise, and that set the wheels in motion.

I went cold turkey on the lemon squares and strawberry cake.

I made it my mission to run, walk or crawl at least five miles every day.

And the grand prize at the end was hitting 160.

As I said, most of the pounds came off rather quickly and that inspired me to keep chasing my ultimate goal. Once I reached 165, my wife told me I should quit because I was looking too thin.

But we Adamsons aren’t quitters (unless we’re scared, hurt, under the weather, or know we’re beat,), so I was bound and determined to reach 160.0 so I could put the FitBit on maintenance mode and dance in the end zone.

But …

I can’t lose these last 1.6 pounds. Each day I eat less than the amount of calories I’m allowed, yet the scale won’t go any lower.

Each Friday I’m confident I’ve finally hit my goal, but all I can get is close – tantalizingly close.

Still, I continue to keep my eyes on the prize, and know in my heart that one day I’ll reach the magic number and it’ll be cause for a major celebration.

I probably shouldn’t celebrate with lemon squares, though.

Then again, 170 was my original goal, so ….

 

 

You know how you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you hit your knee on the corner of the bed?

It hurts.

Often, you’ll make a groaning noise moments after impact.

You might even scream, “Shit!”

Then your darling person will wake up and yell, “What!”

“I hit my damn knee on the damn bed,” you’ll say. And you’ll likely mutter “Shit!” again because it just seems … right.

I think we’ve all done it, or at least done something similar. But while the pain can be sharp, it’s usually fleeting, so instead of rolling up in a ball and crying, you cowboy up, go pee, and then go back to bed.

This is how normal people react; they don’t get mad at the bed.

The bed meant no harm.

Sadly, I don’t think I’m normal.

Why?

Because there is one particular inanimate object in my home – a portable fan – that makes me angry because it does mean harm, and I’m holding a grudge against the fan itself.

I hate that little bastard … I hate it with every fiber of my being. I want to hurt it and destroy everything it loves.

Here’s how it started:

We have an old house with a small downstairs bathroom.

It has no ventilation, so when you take a hot shower everything steams up and the walls sweat and you open yourself up to mold and mildew. However, if you place a fan by the door and aim it at the shower, it acts as a faux ventilation system.

And for that purpose, it works well. The trick, of course, is to move it out of the way when you’re done.

I tend to forget to do this, and it absolutely refuses to leave on its own accord.

So over the course of a week, I’m going to crash into this fan at least five times.

And that means at least five times I’m going to suffer various injuries and scream “Shit!” at the top of my lungs.

It’s really pissing me off.

I’ll walk by and kick it and stumble – once I even hit my head on the door after losing my balance completely – and it just looks at me.

And I know it’s laughing.

I can’t hear it cackle over the whir of its noisy blades … but I believe it to be true.

And every time there’s a collision, I grow angrier with it.

Just a few days ago, I rounded the corner in broad daylight and kicked it. I swear I had moved it out of the way, but there it was back in position … and in this instance, I was only wearing socks so there was actual wailing and gnashing of teeth due to the excruciating pain.

I was so mad I picked it up, shook it and screamed at it.

I felt kind of bad because it happened right in front of my bedroom fan, which has always been really sweet and probably didn’t need to hear what I was screaming.

On the other hand, making an example of the evil bathroom fan might serve as an object lesson in case the good fan ever decides to go rogue.

Now, do I have some responsibility here?

Maybe.

If I moved it out of the way after showering, I wouldn’t run into it.

But I can’t be expected to remember everything.

With two cats and two dogs – and one of the dogs being a hyperactive, vocal, criminally insane young Chihuahua – I tend to get distracted. And it would be nice if the fan showed some initiative from time to time and moved itself.

Further proof that the fan is out to get me is that Mary never has this problem with it.

It’s like the car “Christine” or that “Talky Tina” doll from “The Twilight Zone.” Much like those Mephistophelean objects, perhaps this fan has made me the target if its evil intent.

So the battle will rage on.

I’ll shower in the morning, step around it when I’m done, and hopefully remember to put it away.

But it’ll find its way back, and we’ll go round and round again.

Who knows?

Maybe one day I might accidentally leave it on the side of the road during trash pickup day.

That day might even come next week for that little prick fan.

Besides, how bad can mold and mildew be?