Projectiles and Snuggies

When we found out ESPN's College Gameday was coming to Provo, we knew we had to be there. If you've ever seen it, you know that there are tons of crazy fans there, and a load of signs, all hoisted on poles, that say things like "Charlie Weis? Better hide the twinkies" or "Corso is a loser". We knew it would be an early Saturday morning, considering we knew that people were camping out and the show began taping live at 8 a.m. Well the night before we ran to Wal-Mart, picked up some posterboard and a giant sharpie, and sat down to make our legendary signs. The first was easy. How would people know it was us on TV? Simple. A giant sign that says "HELMET GUY" with an arrow pointing down. We didn't really have to worry about originality because odds were good that no one else was going to show up with that same sign. The second was a little more challenging. Some thoughts that went through my head were "Herbstreit wears women's underwear" and "Corso and Jesus love the Cougs". However, I knew that BYU's finest, armed with electric shavers and hair clippers, would be stalking the grounds, making sure everyone attending was clean shaven, wearing knee-length shorts, and representing BYU well. After all, if College Gameday went to heaven, WWJD? Certainly no references to women's underwear or Himself. Somewhere around 2 a.m. the thought struck me--or maybe it was that intoxicating Sharpie smell. Yeah, we were hotboxing it in our tiny apartment with a Sharpie.

Trying to get into Gameday was a fiasco. Thousands of people were in line to get in and get a spot where they could get on TV. Finally we got to the gate, but were turned away because I was wearing my helmet. Evidently, BYU Police were afraid I would become enraged if Corso put on that cursed Horned Frog Mascot head, and subsequently try to launch my helmet and knock Corso out with a double round-house helmet to the face. Really? I mean I told them I would expect that kind of thing from Patrice, but certainly not from me!

Well the helmet and I were not to be separated (we had made a binding contract, sealed in blood, the day I made it) so we tried to find a spot where the signs could still get on TV. The Fuzz was on to me though--they knew a disgruntled special needs child like myself would try and do something stupid. Then they saw the sign. But I wasn't even holding it. There, above the crowd, held by dear, innocent, sweet Patrice, read the words: "Gary Patterson wears a Snuggie!" Yes, that's right, we were accusing TCU's head coach of atrocious behavior. Mothers wept and turned away, shielding their babies eyes from the offensive words. Fathers cried out in horror at such a disgusting display of disgustingness. Somewhere, high in the administrative offices of BYU, President Samuelson sighed, shook his head in sorrow, and changed the channel, whispering a prayer for our lost souls.

The sign was ripped from Patrice's grip, and thrown into a burning pile, where I also spotted Catcher in the Rye and the cursed witchcraft series of Harry Potter. No place in the world for garbage like that.

Well to make a long story long, Patrice and I escaped with our lives and still managed to get a little TV time. Well, at least she did.

And Corso was still just a helmet's throw away.

Thanks a lot Stephen King

Patrice and I decided to get a dog.

Considering my late hours at work, and since Patrice had already used every possible combination of pictures on makemebabies.com, it seemed like a good idea to get her a little buddy that would make our apartment seem a little less lonely.

Our landlords had already given us permission to look around, and to let them know if we found one we wanted. However, there were some restrictions put on having a dog: no peeing, no pooping, no barking. Hmmmm. Good thing we weren't asking to have a baby.

After some searching, we found the perfect little Mini Pincher-- a pure bred at a reasonable price (you'd be surprised how much people are asking for mutts!). We even had the name all picked out for him.

Well before buying him, I just wanted to make sure that it was still alright with them. Let the game of cat and mouse begin... Texts with no response, calls with no answer. All the while, I had asked the owner of the dog to hold him for a few days, telling her that we were set on buying him, we just needed a last shred of approval from our landlords..

Finally, we got the call back. "Ya know, my wife is pregnant. Sooooo..."

"Oh well I have arranged everything to make sure that he is pretty well trained before even moving him in. And our schedules overlap just right so we won't have to lock him in the bathroom..."

"Yeah. Ya know, I just don't think we would feel comfortable with a dog around the house all the time."

Whoa. What? I made sure to reiterate that we were getting a little dog, and that he wouldn't just be roaming free. The answer was still no.

Evidently, somewhere in between our conversations about getting a dog, they got into their minds that we were going to travel back in time to 1984 and snatch up the demon-puppy gatekeeper from Ghostbusters. Ya know, the same dog that chased you in your nightmares as a kid?

Somewhere in our talk of Mini Pinchers and Miniature Doxies, they got a mental image that looked more like something from a Stephen King novel:

And little less like something from reality:

I don't know about you but I some differences between the two. Though I am sure the little guy would have created a few problems: chewing on our couch, scratching at the door, eating our landlord's unborn fetus while they sleep. Ya know, the usual. Puppies will be puppies.

So we'll have to wait to expand our little family.

But we'll probably name him Cujo.

Politically Awesome!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCiTAJi1yRk&feature=related

What better way to celebrate the election of our first black president then to grow a giant weed-fro on his politically "Determined" face?

People will do anything for a buck.

Ours is in the mail.

Unfortunately, we couldn't shell out the $60 for his politically "Happy" face. There's just something odd about paying more money to look up and see our president's clay head, who after a few days of water and sun reminds us more of Don King or a young Michael Jackson (R.I.P. homie), smiling as the economy tanks.

I want to look up from my kitchen sink to see my Alfalfa=headed Obama looking like he is doing something to save my 401k.

Nothing says "Yes We Can" like my Determined Chia Prez.

Behind the Poop

Both Patrice and I figured that we should explain the story behind the nickname Poop Chin. But instead of telling the story in words, why not show a VH1-worthy "Behind the Poop". Allow me to dramatically set the scene before you watch the video:

Imagine Patrice attempting to do The Worm (which, considering her thuggish-ruggish nature of hip-hop and dance, shouldn't be too difficult).

But for entertainment's sake, she decides to begin by introducing this Worm with a crowd-pleasing handstand.

Well, you can see where this is going. Perhaps in not so formal an introduction: face meet carpet. Carpet, face.

Friction.

Rug burn.

Here's the best re-creation we could find. (Our search was, to say the least, extensive.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ora35AzLxt0

Only in our story, it was Patrice not midgets.

But oddly enough, she was wearing a blue singlet.

When the smoke cleared, and the wrestlers went back to the Shire, our dear Patrice was left with a sizeable scab on her chin. Well when Todd saw it, he figured instead of the obvious answer (an altered break dance move gone wrong), that Patrice had gone litter-box bobbing for bum-apples. When he pointed and laughed, crying "It looks like you have poop on your chin!", the name just stuck.

A star was born.

Bun(s) in the oven!

Alright, so before you all get worked up thinking that a little one is on the way, let me explain. The hours that I work are from 3-11 pm, Saturday through Tuesday (and every other Wednesday). So needless to say, Patrice has a lot of alone time. While we were dating, she was still in school so I never really thought much about how she occupied her time, since she was so studious. But now school is over for our big-time college grad, so what in the world does she do all day?! Well, we now know the answer. I came home tonight and found out that she had gone to makemebabies.com--which is a website that makes good on its promise, as long as you upload a picture of Mom and Dad (If you are thinking about "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" here, you are hitting the nail on the head). Well, it's no secret that Patrice and I are really, really ridiculously good looking, so why would our child NOT come out looking as devilishly handsome as David Beckham himself?! How wrong we were. . .

Voila le result.

Somehow, inside the world of makemebabies.com, when the computer analyzed my hair color and Patrice's it concluded that not only would our son have red hair, but an embarrassing Comb-over of Fire, rivaling only that of a love child between Donald Trump and Carrot-top (Now, there's a mental image for you... you're welcome). Maybe his hair was scorched to that flamboyant auburn in the seventh circle of hell, which is the same place he got his smile. You can't tell me that kid is not going to climb out of his crib, walk down the stairs on his hands, get a knife from the kitchen, and butcher us in our sleep. Then again, maybe Patrice uploaded an image from "Rosemary's Baby" instead of me. . .

Then there's the issue of his three-year old face being attached to an infant's body. Don't get me wrong, I loved the movie "Willow" but I didn't want to bring him home with me.

Now for our precious daughter:

It's apparent that the computer didn't think much of our hair (again) and decided our baby would look better in a turban pulled from Bin Laden himself. Not to mention the hindu-esque robe she is wearing. Other than that, she is a little darling, worthy of our affection. . .

--and if the boy was really ours, we would love him too.

I guess.