Not sure what set off the stampede towards this web page over the weekend, but I do know there’s some horny Iranians looking for Amanda Beard photos.
Apparently, I am still the authority on Lea Thompson’s ass: WOLVERINES!!! (you're a commie pinko if you don't watch Red Dawn everytime it pops up on TBS). Mrs. Thompson is not to be confused with Lea Walker. My my, you could float downtown Minneapolis on those things.
Spent the night out on the deck with perfect weather, a decent stout, and bugs finding something else to cause irritation to. The kids managed to beat up on each other less then usual while hacking around the yard with their minature set of golf clubs. God forbid if they ever get hooked on the game, I'm not sure if duffing a 80 yard approach shot after crushing a 350 yard drive is more tilt-worthy then watching yourself get quartered after the final two cards come off the deck after being air tight for a scoop.
I vote for the chunk of sod, unless there's an attentive beer cart chick providing blood pressure lowering macro brews (or a Cap'n Coke if you're so inclined).
The boy is set to start school-age activities next week, of which I will be there first-hand to see him off to the brave new world of academia and heart breaks. The parents are required to spend the first day of Kindergarden with the kids and since I'm more about eating paste then acting my age, I was elected to hold his hand into Ms. Hilstrom's classroom next Tuesday at nine am. A scary proposition for both of us, as I'm letting go of my first born to the outside world hoping they accept him for who he is.
As documented here, I liked learning, I hated school. My only wish is that my son's easement into "real" life outside of afternoon naps and Nana's freshly baked banana bread in the morning is more joy then pain.