Sheldon The Wonderhorse's Open Salon Blog

Things My Boy Should Know: A Guyde

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 08:01:35 -0500

I got thinking about babies today.

Specifically, I got thinking about mine. He's not here yet, the Wonderpony, but we're only a few weeks away. With February fast approaching, I realized, "Holy shite, Shel, you got to get the boy some learnin' and fast". So, I started thinking: What should every boy know? What would have made my life easier if I had known this from the get-go? Ladies and gentleman, I give you: THE GUYDE.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #192

Boy, this is a 1970 Buick Riviera, my first car. It had a muffler, but you couldn't tell. My first girlfriend couldn't see over the dashboard, and the horn was fashioned under the steering column, so you had to honk with your knee. All in all, it was a piece of crap. Still, it was better than what I'm currently driving. Sorry about that.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #632:

Boy, this is a vampire. Notice the fangs and long fingernails. Also, notice he doesn't sparkle. Vampires never sparkle. If he's sparkling, not a vampire. If he's sparkling, he can give you some great fashion advice, which there is certainly something to be said for. But again, not a vampire.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #433:

Boy, this is Bugs Bunny. Now, a lot of people will try to convince you that the only cartoon character that matters is a certain mouse. Don't listen to them - they are maroons. The mouse has a better PR department, that's all. You want to get your Saturday morning chuckles, look for this guy. He won't let you down.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #725:

Boy, this is a corndog. Basically, it's a hot dog dipped in batter than deep fried. It's really tasty. We ate a lot of these in Iowa, because really, there wasn't much else to do. Avoid anyone who puts ketchup on one of these - they are mentally deranged. In fact, you should steer clear of anyone who even puts ketchup on a hot dog. Yellow mustard is the only thing that should ever go on a corndog. Also, if you decide to one day run for office - avoid the corndog. They taste great but make for seriously horrible photo-ops.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #956:

Boy, this is what No Discernible Talent looks like. Sure, it's easy on the eyes, but really that's all it has going for it. Aim higher.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #502:

Boy, this is Delaware. To our knowledge, no one actually lives there. In fact, not only will you probably never meet anyone who's from there, you will probably never meet anyone who's even been through there. I'm including it just so you know it does exist.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #377:

Is it a sandwhich, is it a meal? We may never know. You will, however, probably be living on these whenever you mom goes out of town. Don't worry - after the third bite, you tongue goes numb and you can't taste anything anyway.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #79:

Boy, this is the Pilsbury Doughboy. He was a mascot for a baking company. He later became Speaker of the House, divorced his wife when she had cancer, and ran for President. No one was sure what exactly caused the drastic personality shift.

THINGS MY BOY SHOULD KNOW #166:

Boy, these are boobs. Take a good look. Enjoy the time you have with them now, because you're going to spend the rest of your life trying to see them again.

I May Have to Kill That Snowman

Tue, 29 Nov 2011 11:11:03 -0500

Boy, this is turning out to be a bad idea.

At the time, it seemed harmless enough. Build a snowman, give him a magic hat, watch him come to life, frivolity ensues. I was all set for hysterical quips and skimming down snow-covered hills on his back. I thought we'd become life long pals. Friends. Buddys. I couldn't have been more wrong.

I may have to kill that snowman.

As soon as I put that fucking hat on him, he starts complaining. Why did I give him sticks for arms? Why give him a scarf and no pants? What's the deal with the corn-cob pipe - why did I make him a smoker? Seriously, it's been nothing but bitch, bitch, bitch from day one, and I am getting pretty fucking tired of it.

I tried to take the hat off his head, but the guy's like two feet taller than me, so good luck with that. Of course, I try to take it off and he runs to the traffic cop, and he threatens to arrest me for domestic abuse, so I can't freaking win.

I thought at the very least, he would stay outside, but no, he's made himself right at home. I walk in the other day, and the bastard is sitting there on the couch, watching "Maury", and eating all of my Doritos. Again, ALL OF MY DORITOS. Like, an entire bag. I ask him why he did it, and he sat there and lied to my face. "It wasn't me, man. Relax," he said. I told him I knew it was him because there was orange Dorito dust all over his mouth and snowfingers, but he kept denying it. "It wasn't me, man. Relax".

Yeah, I'll relax. I'll relax this hatchet in the middle of your snowskull, asshole.

I don't even want to talk about my last electric bill. The bastard is running the A/C 24-7, and my balls can't take it anymore. I can't bake anything because, "it gets too hot, and my face starts to melt". Forget about using the fireplace. Hell, if I even light a candle, I have to listen to "Don't get that too close to me - you know I'm alergic to flames" all night.

And the ego. Man oh man, is that getting old. "Bitch, you best get out of my face," he says to me. "Do you know who I am? Children love the shit out of me, so back the fuck off".

I mean, seriously, who talks that way?

And get this - the other day he has the gall to ask me for $200 so he could get a prostitute. I said absoultely not, and then he asked me to build him a snowhooker. He said he had a magic g-string that he was sure would bring her to life. I just walked away and tried to ignore him. But I swear to Christ, if I have to hear him talking about how badly he needs a "snow-job" one more time, I am going to lose my shit.

We got into a pretty big arguement the other day, and I told him, "Just wait, fatboy. Spring is not that far away, so keep it up." Fucker just laughed and told me he'd be back again someday.

Yeah, this was a bad idea.

An Open Letter to The Woman Wearing the Turkey Shirt

Wed, 23 Nov 2011 12:11:16 -0500

Well done, madam. Well done indeed.

You are fully invested in the holiday, and I for one salute you. It's not everyone who has, dare I say, the balls to leave one's house with a giant turkey on their sweatshirt. But you, my friend, obviously swim against the stream of the popular masses, and I can't help but admire that and congratulate you for your individuality.

I think for most people, Thanksgiving has become the Jan Brady of holidays. Not unloved, mind you, just kind of boring and average. Attractive in a homely sort of way. It doesn't have the cool aspect of Halloween or the zippy fun of Christmas. It just sits there in the middle of the two, trying to elbow it's way to the front of the line. Most of us would say "Give it up, Thanksgiving. It's never going to happen. Be happy you get the measly two end-caps at the Target".

But not you, madam. You clearly are wearing your turkey and wearing it proudly. I especially appreciate the google-eyes you have affixed to said turkey's head. Correct me if I'm wrong, but do I espy actual feathers coming out it's hind-end? My word, you are working for the super A++ in arts and crafts, aren't you?

I know we've never met, but I can't help but imagine what your home looks like: garnished in blinking brown & orange lights, the traditional Thanksgiving shrub decorated with precious gravy boats and drumsticks, the ever-popular turkey waddle hung in the foyer (don't get caught under it or you have to clip your partner's toenails!).

I hate to be rude, but correct me if I'm wrong: you've dabbed a little stuffing behind each ear, haven't you? I knew it! You walked by, and I thought I got a faint whiff of celery and turkey orifice. And might I say, the shoes that are shaped like turkey feet are a lovely addition.

I'm sure there will be some people who point and laugh at you. Silently judge and make some snarky comment. Ignore them, Turkey Lady. This is your day - enjoy it. Take your love of Thanksgiving, and fly with the wind.

Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

Tue, 22 Nov 2011 13:11:59 -0500

How was your day?

Odd.

What do you mean?

I mean, odd. A guy at work gave me a potato.

A potato.

Yep.

Like a potato potato?

Yeah. A potato potato.

Like a baked potato?

No, like a raw potato.

He gave you a raw potato.

Yes, he gave me a raw potato.

Did he say why he was giving you a raw potato?

Nope. Walked into my cube, placed the potato on my desk, turned around and walked out without a word. Didn't see him for the rest of the day.

Is he known for giving out random vegetables?

Not that I'm aware of.

Huh.

I know, right? Say, this may sound like a dumb question, but is the potato really a vegetable?

You're kidding, right?

No, I'm serious. I mean, I know they tend to store them in the vegetable section at the grocery store, but it doesn't really seem to fit in with the other vegetables. It seems to be a bit of black sheep, vegetably speaking.

Well, this should be good. Please, enlighten me as to how the potato doesn't fit in with the other vegetables.

Simple. No juice.

I'm sorry?

No juice.

Juice?

Yeah, you can get juice out of pretty much every other vegetable. Carrots, beets, pepper. But not the potato. Have you ever heard of anyone craving a glass of potato juice?

Um...I guess not. Pepper juice?

Sure. Pepper juice.

Do you drink pepper juice?

Well, I don't, but that doesn't mean that you couldn't get juice out of a pepper. If you were so inclined.

I can't believe I let you impregnante me.

Although, I suppose technically, vodka is potato juice.

I have heard of people drinking that.

Your uncle Richard really likes vodka.

Yes he does.

Remember when he told that judge that he could kiss his hillbilly ass?

I thought we weren't going to talk about that anymore?

I bet he drank a lot of potato juice that day.

It's certainly possible.

I like potatos.

I know you do. You are Irish after all.

This is true.

So, he just gave you one potato?

Yep.

That is odd.

It was nice of him, though. I mean, seriously, when's the last time anyone gave you something out of the blue? Much less a potato?

I can honestly say, no one has ever given me a potato.

That's what I'm saying.

I see.

You know what would be a really good gift?

What?

Meat loaf.

Meat loaf?

Yeah. I mean, it's great to have the potato and all, but a meat loaf would have been better. At least a nice compliment.

You can't just have the potato?

I could, but I don't want to.

That's a little ungrateful, don't you think?

Now that I think about it, this gift potato is starting to be a pain in my ass.

How can this gift potato possibly be a pain in your ass?

Now I have to figure out what goes with the potato, how I'm going to prepare the potato. Fry it? Bake it? Boil it?

It must be very hard being you living in this world.

It is. It really is.

Just Wait....

Mon, 21 Nov 2011 15:11:54 -0500

Dear Current and/or Past Parents of Various Peoples,

First off, thank you for your well wishes regarding the news of the Wonderpony. It's hard to believe the wee lad will be here in just a couple of months. Mrs. Wonderhorse and I are very excited, and are looking at this as a whole new adventure. However, I would appreciate it, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if you could do a couple of things for me.

1. Please stop reminding me that we are both over 40. Mrs. Wonderhorse realizes she's over 40. I realize I'm over 40. I realize that every day when looking in the mirror and the hair in my nose seems to get longer than the hair on my head. Don't worry - I plan on using my age to my advantage. No better way to get out of soccer practices than by whipping out the ol' fake broken hip or "my bursitis is acting up again" excuse. Rest assured, I plan on using both.

On the flip side, please stop trying to put a positive spin on my age by telling me that Charlie Chaplin was having kids when he was 70. Bully for him. However, just because a 70 year old man can have kids, doesn't mean he should. There's nothing more depressing than watching someone buy bibs in both "Newborn" and "King" sizes.

2. Please stop saying "Well, only 19 more and you can be a reality tv star". That's simply not going to happen. Seriously. Are you out of your fucking mind? I want a family, not a real estate office. Besides, that woman is not a star. She's simply a person whose utuerus resembles a Chilean mine. Frankly, the next time some kid from Oklahoma disappears, that's the first place I'd look.

3. Please stop saying "Just wait..." when I tell you I'm excited to meet the wee lad. Just because your kid turned out to be shitbag teenager, please don't assume mine will be too.

4. Please refrain from telling me "Say goodbye to a good night's sleep". I haven't had a good night's sleep since 1993, so stop. While we're at it, please stop reminding me of all the stuff I'm going to miss with the Wonderpony's arrival. I'm well aware that I'm not going to be leaving the house for awhile. I know that my Xbox time will be drastically reduced if not outright demolished. I know that our house will be consumed by Fisher Price and Star Wars toys. Frankly, I'm kind of looking forward to that.

5. Please stop acting like you have done something no one else has ever done. Seriously, you raised a child. Just like 7 BILLION other people. For the record, I never said this was going to be easy. Never has that thought crossed my mind. I know it's going to be hard. But really, the self-satisfied smugness is getting pretty old. You had your problems with your kid and survived. We will have our problems with ours, and am pretty sure we will as well. But, please stop acting like you have all the answers and we are clueless simpletons. You know, I have actually seen a baby, right? In fact, I've even held them before. I know - shocking.

Finally, I'd just like to thank you for your kind offers to use your old baby stuff. However, please stop thinking of us as a remote storage location for your crap. We have absolutely no problem whatsoever with used items - in fact, we encourage it. Still, half-broken swings and highchairs missing a leg, while a nice thought, really does none of us any good.

That's really about it. I'm sure I will be coming to you with questions from time to time: How do you change a diaper? How do you know when the kid has the croupe? When do babies start to get sarcasm?

You know...the usual.