I'm so proud of myself... "Somebody has to be..." The other day, I did something incredibly wonderful for my son... "We'll be the judge of that..." Yes, I reattached a hand. "Oh god, poor kid! What happened? Did an alligator grab hold of him? A crocodile?! -- how do you tell the two apart?" Relax, it was nothing like that... "I didn't know you were a surgeon. Did you take online courses? Do you ever gag in the operating room?" Well, no, actually, I -- "You think you could do some slicing and dicing, take a few inches off my waist?" Just to clarify, I reattached a bobblehead's hand. Not my my kid's... "A what?" You know, those collectible figures with big heads that bobble back and forth... "Are you sure you're not talking about Hollywood celebrities at a sobriety checkpoint?" The bobblehead's hand broke off one day, so I used a type of super, super glue and it worked... I should know -- that little hand got stuck to my hand! For awhile there, I had an extra digit... I pulled and tugged and nothing happened. I was convinced I'd have to have it surgically removed... "The bobblehead's hand, you mean..." Yes. Anyway, my son was so proud of me when I fixed the bobblehead -- it was all worth it. I've never seen him so happy... "I have -- whenever you're not home." This all reminds me of when I worked on model cars and airplanes as a kid. Admittedly, I'd get upset trying to hold the tiny parts with my fingers... "Did you ever consider tweezers?" And I always ended up with all these extra parts that I didn't know what to do with... "I'm glad you're not my surgeon -- you have anger issues." I wasn't very patient as a kid, as you can tell... "Oh, there's a lot I can tell, believe me..." Can we talk more about this later? I find it therapeutic to talk about my childhood hobbies... "Uh, much later." Great. How about tomorrow, right around this time... "Oooh, I can't wait -- actually, I can, for a very long time..." So what are you saying? "Don't call me, I'll call you..."
"Hey, buddy, what's wrong?" I'm sad. Really, really sad... "Oh, but don't be. You should be accepting of your appearance by now..." Friends and family, I don't know about you, but it saddens me to know that there are only 1.75 billion to 3.25 billion years left on Earth. "Well, that narrows it..." And that's too bad because this human civilization thing was doing pretty good, too -- other than trivial stuff like the threat of nuclear war and bio-terrorism... "No worries, all that's overrated anyway..." I don't know about the rest of you guys, but this news puts a lot of pressure on me to work on my Things to Do Before the World Ends List before... you know... "Before Earth ceases to exist?" Yeah, I mean, I have so much I want to accomplish, so much I want to do before the Apocalypse. "So then what are you waiting for? Move it! Move it! Move it!" Okay, I will! Yeah, for starters, I want to memorize the names of all of Angelina Jolie's kids... Yeah, and I want to be able to rattle off the list of JLo's ex-husbands and boyfriends without a cheat sheet. "Good luck on that one..." And here's another troublesome thought about the Earth's demise in the next few billion years: the Chicago Cubs may not have enough time to win another World Series before then... "Oh, those poor, poor Cubbies -- blame it on the billy goat. Not Mother Earth." Speaking of Chicago, I don't know if I ever told you guys, but I was born in Chicago... "Please, you'll ruin Al Capone's reputation..." You know, when you stop and think -- "Not me, not while I'm awake" -- there's really not much time left for Earth. And that's going to affect a lot of family's lives. "You really think so?" Take the Kardashians, for example. "Nah, you can have 'em." This doesn't give a guy like Rob Kardashian much of a chance to find a job... "Just when he was getting motivated, too..." And Bruce Jenner, he won't be able to get all the work done on his face as currently scheduled. "That would be a tragedy..." Now, closer to home, the clock's ticking away as my wife tries to wear all the shoes she has under the bed before Earth goes kaputz. "Wow, now that you put it in those terms, 3.25 billion years is no time at all!"
Like everyone else out there, I'm not perfect. "Speak for yourself." But from now on I'm going to be perfect -- or at least try. "But, but, why? Why set the bar so high?" I'm doing it for my wife. "Oh oh. What did you do? Something really bad, huh? Something that would make a seasoned priest blush. You should be ashamed of yourself!" No, no, it's nothing like that... "Well, in that case, instead of trying to reach perfection, start with something more reasonable, something more realistic -- like plastic flowers. She'll love those..." No, no, I just want to be the best husband possible from now on... The best spouse there is... "Huh? What's come over you? You usually strive for mediocrity -- and even that's a reach. Come on, tell the truth. What's going on?" I already told you, my wife deserves the best, and I'm going to be all I can be for her... "You might as well join the Army while you're at it." Look, I want to be perfect for my beloved -- especially after reading about a woman who chose her pet rats over her husband!!! "Huh?" That's what the article stated, I swear. "Oooh, you swore! I'm gonna tell!" That's not considered swearing swearing. "Are you sure?" I swear I'm sure... "Okay, then. We'll let you slide this time..." Thank you... So yeah, I told my wife about the woman who chose rats over her husband -- and she smiled. "She smiled?" She flashed a bunch of teeth, yeah. She found it amusing... "You mean she liked the idea?" That's what I'm a little nervous about. Instead of denouncing the woman's actions, my wife seemed to agree with this crazy woman's stunt. "How could you tell?" She said she agreed. "Oh, that's a pretty good sign..." I don't know, but I'm about ready to dump all the cheese in the house. I don't want to give her any reminders of that woman and her rats. ""There's some good Cotija cheese in the fridge, too -- are you gonna eat that?" Nah, I can't take the chance. Take it. "I think I will -- along with some tortillas." From now on, I'm going to always help around the house. I'll be Mr. Fix-it, pick up all the towels, hang my clothes in the closet... I'm going to do all those things -- and more. My wife will have nothing to ever complain about. She'll have no choice but to hold on to me... "Wow, that's impressive. So, does that mean you're going to take the trash out to the garbage can without being told?" What? Are you kidding? And run the risk of running into filthy rat while I'm out there? Hell no!
Gather around everybody, I want to admit something. I'm going to come right out and say it... "Great, just in time for the parade coming up -- you can carry the colorful banner..." Well, here goes: I enjoy gossip magazines every once in awhile, but not all the time, okay? Just every so often... "You? Mr. High and Mighty? You read the rags? You stoop to such lowly levels?" Look, I can't lie, I'm not into chicanery... "Hey, Chicano Studies isn't for everybody..." Anyway, as I've honed my skills for celebrity research, I've learned that many celebrity parents feel compelled to put their kids on strict diets from Day One. "What about Day Zero? Day Zero never gets any credit. For that, there should be zero-tolerance!" Uh yeah... I think of all those fun-food deprived kids and I can only thank my lucky stars... "You mean, Carl's Chicken Stars..." Okay, right... For that reason alone I'm glad I wasn't raised in a celebrity family... "Watch what you're saying, there are some perks: round-the-clock attention, limo rides to school, rubbing elbows with spoiled-rotten kids already in therapy -- it doesn't get better than that." You heard it here first: not allowing celebrity kids a fun-filled diet will bring America to its knees. After all, we are talking about tomorrow's leaders... "But what about the day after that?" I read about zany celebrities and their kids' no-nonsense diets -- my childhood would've been so empty, to say nothing of my stomach, if my parents had reared me in a similar fashion. "Please, you should be the last to speak about fashion..." There's no way my brain would be what it is today if it hadn't been for my unrestricted childhood diet... "Lucky us..." For that, I salute my down-to-earth-parents. "Oh please, stop with the dietary drama..." I'm serious. I can't imagine growing up without first-thing-in-the-morning pan dulce, or chorizo con huevo -- or weekend menudo! "I still say Ricky Martin should've stuck with 'em..." Yeah, I'm glad my folks were never high profile celebrities, forcing wacky fad diets down my gagging throat: "You no leave this mesa if you no finish los macrobiotic vegetales!" That would've been crazy, right? "The thick accent, yes..." While I appreciate celebrities' concerns for what their kids put in their mouths and bodies (for the most part), my parents didn't spend much time worrying about such things. Whenever I got an allergic reaction to certain foods, my dad would merely shrug his shoulders and say, "Ponte Vicks." That was his cure-all. It still is. "Yeah, I remember... And where you applied the Vapor Rub was totally up to you..." And now that I think about it, my parents wanted me to see dinner while it was still alive. Especially on our many trips to Mexico, where they had me witness cows and pigs and chickens being 'prepped' for that evening's meal. Why, I've never seen so much blood, so much upfront gore in my life -- other than Tarantino flicks. It's a miracle I didn't grow up disturbed. In fact, if I may say so, I turned out okay. More than okay. I turned out to be a pretty stable, fairly even-keeled guy. Yes, very much so, no doubt about it... "Uh, let me ask you a question buddy: Growing up, are you positive you didn't try Charlie Sheen's homemade lunches?"
