A bumper sticker with your name on it

Bumper sticker says, “26,000 children will die of starvation today. Why should God answer YOUR prayers?” 




Before you accuse me

Last night when Tina and I crawled into bed, I nosed the air and thought, “Holy shit, I need a shower. Is that me?”

“No,” said Tina. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m going to bed.”

There was a heavy odor in the room that smelled like swamp ass. You know what I’m talking about. You get finished with a long workout. You sit down to do some stretches, and when you stretch your groin, you almost pass out from the stink.

The paranoid side of me kicked into gear. We had a shoot yesterday, and surely if I smelled that badly, someone would be offended. Stench like that doesn’t arrive from the time I get home and the point I crawl into bed.

A fragrance — like B.O. flowers — needs time to evolve. It develops over time. It’s the survival of the stinkiest. Body odor is only marginally more offensive at 11 p.m. than it might be at 3 p.m.

“Tina, do you smell that,” I said repeatively. “It’s SO bad.”

“Yeah, Jer,” she responded. “I just figured it was you. It’s not that bad. Go to sleep.”

“NOT THAT BAD!” I blurted. “That is some repugnant shit!”

I got up, and smelled Talulah. I smelled Zoe. I smelled Tina. I smelled the bedding.

I’m a professional sniffer. Both on and off the court.

One of my mom’s favorite stories is when I was about 4 or 5, she turned around while walking through the grocery store, and I was holding up chocolate chip packaging and smelling the dark chocolate morsels through the cellophane packaging. It was a glorious day.

I’m not as good with my nose as Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in the book “Perfume.” But I’m pretty damn good at deciphering and un-encoding incredibly complicated smells (winks).

So I went to finding the stench in the room. I would stop at nothing to find the source of that  miasma. I stuck my nose on everything in the room. From the chest of drawers to Tina’s boobs. From the window sill to Talulah’s butt. I removed my boxers and inhaled a life-altering whiff.

My boxers had an odor, but it wasn’t the one I was searching for.

Finally I figured it out. I reached inside Talulah’s crate, and felt her crate pillow. It was sopping wet.

“SHIT,” I said.

“What?” Tina asked. “Did she shit her crate?”

“No, she did something though.”

We think she might have vomited in there while we were away this afternoon, and we didn’t notice it. Her pillow is dark, and sometimes she gets stinky and needs a bath.

The moral of the story is, when you think you stink, always check the dog and its belongings first. If it’s not the dog, it’s you, and you should consider showering. In the very least, Febreze yourself.

“queerest of all the queer things in this world”

Mark Twain on what was a new invention at the time … the telephone:

Then followed that queerest of all the queer things in this world, — a conversation with only one end to it. You hear questions asked; you don’t hear the answer. You hear invitations given; you hear no thanks in return. You have listening pauses of dead silence, followed by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow, or dismay. You can’t make head or tail of the talk, because you never hear anything that the person at the other end of the wire says.