The Roman god, Vulcan, has apparently been extra busy at his forge, according to practically every major news report filed by every news agency across the globe over the past couple weeks. Seriously, if you don't have at least some passing understanding about the recent volcanic activity in Iceland, you must be living in a particularly deep cave, with top-tier insulation and no cell phone or WiFi connectivity.
Leave it to Mother Nature to light the fuse on a moderately-sized volcano to underscore just how puny human emissions actually are by comparison. "You think YOU'RE capable of changing the climate? Check out WHAT I CAN DO!" Honestly, there's no reason for Mother Nature to show off like this, in my opinion. Okay, Mother Nature, we get it; you're better than us. Jeez.
Leaving aside the fact the volcanic activity has melted glacial ice, ground airplane traffic to a near standstill, and has blanketed wide swaths of Europe under choking ash, I think the news media is missing an even more important story here: that being the sheer number of people who have died trying to pronounce the name of the first volcano: Eyjafjalljokull.
Seriously, who names a volcano "Eyjafjalljokull?" It's like someone asked a three-year-old child to bang on a keyboard for five seconds, and the result was the name of the volcano. "Good job, little Timmy! You just named a volcano!"
As if to underscore how difficult it is to pronounce Eyjafjalljokull, another Icelandic volcano was reported to have started erupting this week, named "Hekla." Although the report was later deemed inaccurate, I suspect Iceland fabricated the story in an attempt to apologize for all the instances of "Eyjafjalljokull" appearing in news articles over the past couple of weeks and announced "Oh. There's ANOTHER volcano! This volcano is named. . . Hekla? How does Hekla sound? Better than Eyjafjalljokull, right?"
I could almost hear the collective sigh of relief expressed when the name of the second volcano was announced. Journalists worldwide were poised at their keyboards--which would all no doubt melt from the friction of repeatedly typing "Feyjdonallajoolakullafunill"--and they all started weeping with joy when they first heard "Hekla" reported, although some of the geekier reporters were probably secretly disappointed since they had a keyboard macro all set up for "Feyjdonallajoolakullafunill."
Now that I think about it further, Eyjafjalljokull would make a most excellent cuss word. Imagine accidentally whacking your thumb with a hammer--as opposed to intentionally doing so, I guess--and trying to yell out "Eyjafjalljokull!!" You'd probably snap a vocal cord. At the very least, you'd reconsider how much swearing you do.
Caroline: Oh, here's a great story for you. It involves poop.
Ryan: I'm all ears.
Caroline: Apparently B goes into the closet now to poop. He goes in and closes the doors and everything.
Ryan: How Tom Cruisey of him.
Caroline: So the other day he goes in there, but brings his sippy cup.
Ryan: Wait till he brings a magazine.
Caroline: Marc said it was the loudest poop he's ever heard B take. The grunting, that is.
Ryan: That's precious.
Caroline: Apparently, mid-grunt, B says "NO DRINK" and M heard the sippy cup hit the floor and B then continued to poop.
Ryan: LOLO!
Caroline: Right? Man did I LOLO when I heard that one.
Ryan: Oh shit! That's just too damned funny.
Caroline: And you know he was a-scowlin' and gruntin'.
Ryan: And I can totally imagine Marc doing the same thing.
Caroline: OMG, I know
Ryan: A good night out drinkin', and Marc the next day planted on the toilet, grunting and yelling "NO DRINK!"
Caroline: LOLO
Ryan: I have my own poop story to tell. But it's about me.
Caroline: Not surprising.
Ryan: So I drove home from work Thursday, and I turned the corner into Country Club Manor by the former Pump -N- Munch (now Andy's Liquor). And I see my father-in-law, Dave, pushing Aiden in his stroller, and I think "that should give me plenty of time to get home and poop."
Caroline: foreshadow'd!
Ryan: So, I get home, change out of my work clothes, fire up Texas Hold-Em on the Zune, and hunker down for a good dumpy do. And it was a GOOD dumpy do. Five stars. I look out the window and see Dave and Aiden ambling up the sidewalk, so I figure it's time to wrap things up.
Ryan: I flush. Nada.
Ryan: I flush again. Nada.
Caroline: Ay dios mio!
Ryan: I just KNOW Dave is going to probably pee first thing when he gets in the house, and I totally don't want him seeing THAT.
Ryan: For reasons that escape me, we don't own a plunger.
Caroline: heh
Ryan: So, I grab the next best thing: a toilet brush.
Ryan: Dave's now coming up the outside steps. I start breaking apart my uber turd with the toilet brush.
Caroline: This is pretty disgusting.
Caroline: But, you're Ryan.
Ryan: Oh, it gets better.
Ryan: I eventually get Monstro The Wonder Turd broken up, and I used the brush as a kind of plunger to get the plumbing working again. Dave's now in the house, putting Aiden in his Jumperoo.
Ryan: As you might imagine, the toilet brush is now a filthy instrument.
Caroline: Ugh
Ryan: So, I'm waiting for the toilet to refill so I can swish the brush around and dislodge the clinging poop.
Ryan: To jumpstart the process, I tap the brush handle on the bowl.
Caroline: oh, god
Ryan: Of course, poop splatters the wall.
Caroline: Natch
Ryan: Dave walks by the bathroom; the door being open because I figured I had plenty of time.
Ryan: I'm standing there with a poop covered toilet brush, with poop on the wall.
Ryan: What do I say?
Ryan: "I'll just be a minute, Dave, I'm cleaning the toilet."
Ryan: Which is basically the adult equivalent of "NO DRINK!"
Ryan: Dave, not missing a beat, says "Take your time; it looks like it really needs it."
Caroline: LOLO! Awky
Ryan: This has been your Monday installment of "Turdsterpiece Theater."
Caroline: Never disappointing.
My wife complained of stomach pains this morning, and then asked to snuggle. Combined, I knew she was bound for the barf bucket. True to my intuition, she was hunched down on the floor, drooling, about an hour later.
I raced down to the basement to get a bucket, and I spent about a minute--precious time--opening joint compound buckets looking for a good receptacle. I even considered overturning the cat box but. . . ewwwww.
I finally found a bucket, and almost the moment I put it under my wife's chin, the gastronomic release began. Dominos Pizza with extra pineapple mostly, which made me dread that I would be undergoing a similar fate. So far, I've been spared, and her symptoms have grown to include body aches and chills, so we're looking at a full-blown stomach flu. Just can't wait to find out if I get it, which I probably will.
Point being: today was a Daddy day. The boy was all mine from pretty much 6:15 a.m. onward, while Mommy did the whole Typhoid Mary thing in the bedroom, although she emerged valiantly to be with our son at least for a little while.
Aiden and I went for two walks, one with a stroller, and one with the body harness. I prefer the stroller for ease of use, but the body harness is nice for the shorter walks that are complete before the extra weight makes my spine telescope. He laughed when I tickled his arm pits, but only sparingly, because too much is too much.
As nice as the bonding time was, I wanted to use today to get as much done on my latest freelance article as I could but, as it was. . . nada. Deadline is the 26th. My window is closing. Especially since I have another freelance article interview coming up next week.
Sent several literary book agent inquiries out tonight, too. E-mail inquiries, so who knows how that will turn out. I figure a book with the title "How to Cheat Death and Have Fun Doing it" should generate some sort of interest.
Right?
