The investigation into the Russian elections hacking continues. But do not be alarmed, computer experts say the chances of Russians hacking your personal computer are next to nyet.
Computer experts claim the chances of Russians hacking individual’s computers is negligible. But I’m not so sure, today my computer smells like vodka and somebody downloaded a porn file titled “Milfs of Minsk.”
A study shows women retain the DNA of all the men with whom they have had sex. In a related story, Paris Hilton has the same DNA as Malibu.
Beyonce and Jay-Z’s baby’s names have been revealed and they are Rumi and Sir. Not bad for celebrities. I was expecting Melonball and Turbohound.
Jerry Ferrara, “Entourage” star Turtle, got married. It was a touching ceremony when the minister told Jerry, “You may stand on your toes and kiss the bride.”
The Barbie-pal Ken doll now comes with a man-bun. Ken now insists on being called Kenneth.
Since you asked:
Norman Bakehouse
When I was in the Fourth grade, I wet my pants.
How did I remember what grade? Easy. Because it happened walking home from school after band practice and I was only in the band in fourth grade.
As soon as I left the school after band practice, I had to pee a little bit. I was only in band for one year because of a slimy and evil band director, and shake-down and con-artist named Norman Bakehouse. (Picture “The Simpsons” Charles Montgomery Burns)
No, even better. Remember the evil in-house counselor, Mr. Sawyer "Miracle On 34th Street"? That was Norman Bakehouse.
Mr Norman Bakehouse was constantly and loudly hacking up and blowing flem out his throat when not screaming at us for not playing well. All the while he was ripping us off - actually our parents - every chance he got: he required we take private lessons from him, instrument rentals, renting tape recorders, selling us the awful music books and sheet music.
Mr. Bakehouse wet his beak on everything band-related item purchased including the reeds the woodwind clarinets and saxophones used.
Norman Bakehouse was my first of what would amount to seven horrible experiences with an evil grown man with awful combovers. Mr. Bakehouse’s combover was made even worse by his use of oily hair tonic to shellack the pathetic long wiry strands in place on his mole-ridden scalp.
In a world with the Beatles and my beloved Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass, this Bakehouse scumbag had us playing John Phillip Sousa marching band songs and he wondered why everyone hated him and the band.
Imagine a bitter and angry little man who genuinely despises children who, because he was a failed trumpet player, was forced to make his living teaching children. Sort of the anti "Mr. Holland's Opus." That was the nightmare that was Norman Bakehouse.
So I did not want to have to wait to stop and go to the bathroom after fourth grade band practice. Thus was my intense desire to get back to the comfort and warmth of my home on a cold, raw and rainy April Illinois day.
As I walked past Karen Dean’s white colonial house, my endless crush, trumpet case in hand, a mere one block from school, I already started to question my decision of not using the bathroom.
By my good friend, Bill Schultz’s tudor house, who lived on my same Elm Street, but a good four blocks from home, it had now turned into a bladder endurance test.
The speed with which I traveled became crucial. Running was out of the question as it brought too much jarring-of-the-bladder into the scenario. Walk too slowly and I might not make it due to too much time. So I invented a fast slink reminiscent of the stooped and scurrying Groucho Marx sans wagging a cigar.
As everyone knows, your bladder can sense when help is on the way and you are close to a bathroom; it starts to lose control like a man whose fingers are slipping off the edge of the cliff.
By the time I got to my block and Betsy Owen’s house - one of the nicest, smartest and tallest people on the planet - I was in full panic mode. Just at the western end of our block with my house at the eastern end, the jig was up.
Should I ask Mrs Owens if I can use her bathroom? Not enough time. Believe it or not, at nine-years old, I had never peed in the bushes in public before and was not sure how to do it.
So I ran behind a bush and then chickened out. No, I can make it home, I thought. So I ran back to the sidewalk. No, I can’t make it. Back to the bush. Yes, you can. Sidewalk. No, you idiot, you can’t. Back to the bush.
At this point I was frantically running back and fourth to that bush and the sidewalk while making a loud whining pre-crying noise, “Ehhh, ehhhh, ehhhh, ehhh, ehhhh.”
All of a sudden, I had to let go. Relief in the form of hot warmth filled my light-cream corduroy pants turning the crotch and legs a wet dark brown immediately followed by dread and shame. My whining instantly turned into full blown crying.
Clever-as-all-hell, I placed my trumpet case in front of my groin-related area and started to walk the remaining 3/4 of a block home.
As if directed by Mel Brooks, a parade of “This is your life, Alex Kaseberg,” began appearing in front of me as I tried to make the escape for home undetected.
“Hello Mrs. Combs. Hi there, Mr. Garrett. Nice to see you, Mr. Hansen. Mrs. Carson, how are you? Well, Mr. Thompson, good day.” It was a veritable parade of judgmental adults.
When they saw me pathetically trying to hide my obvious giant pee-stain with my trumpet case, almost all of them put their hands over their mouth in a polite attempt to stifle their snickers.
(This is when I get to the part where it becomes clear to me why I was never to turn into a genius along the lines of a Thomas Edison or Mark Twain. And yes, peeing my pants wasn't enough proof)
Utterly humiliated already, I did not want my mother to be ashamed of me, so I burst in the front door and ran up to my room and whipped off my pants. Then, as pretty as you please, to hide the evidence, I put my wet pants in the laundry hamper. Brilliant.
How could I put them in the hamper without the slightest clue my mom would find them and put two-and pee together? Certified non-genius.
Who did I think did our laundry?
My mom was so sweet when she confronted me with the evidence. She asked what happened, I explained and she said,
“Don’t worry about it. But when in doubt, go to the bathroom.”
Sage words I still remember to this day.
Here is my breakdown of my blog readers today by country. Check out Russia. What the hell?
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posted by Alex at
12:36 AM
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