Damn, guys. Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve recently decided to start flying again, so 3 or 4 days a week I have to get up at 5 am, and most of the rest of the time is spent studying. Oh, and there’s my 9-5 job and my 5:30 to 10 job that are cramping my style as well. Forgive me? You know you do, because there’s not another blogger out there who will love you like I do…I only hit you because I care about you and I want you to act right. Now get back in the kitchen and make me some nachos.

First I need to bitch about our neighbors a little more. It seems they have a kid now. I don’t know if they bought him or if he’s in joint custody or on loan from the bowels of hell, but he’s three or four or whatever age they are when they communicate by screaming and breaking things. If it was a crying infant I would sort of understand, except for the part where someone would choose to live in a rented one-bedroom apartment and fart out a kid before they had a place to put it. That’s like the conversation I had with the girl who got fired from her job because she couldn’t afford to fix her car and therefore couldn’t get to work. Where was her money going? Well, she was saving up to adopt a puppy, of course. I find that most people who just can’t seem to catch a break really seem to work hard at keeping it that way. I figured she’d need companionship on her downward spiral to homelessness, so I kept my mouth shut.

Anyway, their kid can talk and stuff, but has no volume knob and is about to get a heelkick to the bridge of his nose from yours truly. Hey, I’m all for kids being kids; raise hell, run around like an idiot and spill your juice, do whatever your parents are inept enough to let you get away with, but for fuck’s sake, do it during daylight hours. This kid has been awake and yelling at midnight several times. I gaze forlornly at the clock, knowing I have five hours until I have to get up…and I pray for the legalization of seventeenth trimester abortions. I know it’s really the parents’ fault for letting him act like that. Unfortunately getting rid of the parents won’t solve the problem as quickly. A child with crappy parents is going to grow up to be a crappy adult, then a crappy parent, and guess what comes after that? You guessed it – more crappy kids who grow up to be crappy adults who will fart out still more crappy kids. And it grows exponentially.

As the Skirt and I continue to pursue other nonstandard methods of birth control, we decided to go to a show called “Living with Dinosaurs” at the local Mega-Arena, which was bound to be brimming with small retarded adults (my new term for children. Think about it - it’s pretty accurate. They Yell, they can’t communicate very well, they only like sweetened drinks, applesauce and peanut butter, they’re stronger than they look, you can’t leave them alone for any amount of time, they’re unpredictable, if you beat one up or fall in love with one you’re automatically a jerk, the list goes on…). I was actually excited to go for several reasons:

1. Anyone born with a penis has a primal interest in Fire trucks, dinosaurs, and airplanes. As we get older things like guns, cars, people with boobs, and power tools begin to play a heavier role, but we never lose our core passions.
2. It was taking place about three miles from home, so I wouldn’t have to make a day of it
3. It was not going to be too crowded, and if there was a riot I was bigger than most of the people there and had a good chance of getting out alive.
4. T-rex, bitches

If you don’t know about the show, you can click here or keep reading my description if you want the abridged version:

Basically a group of geniuses decided to make life size walking talking dinosaurs that would come out and do what dinosaurs do, which is primarily be awesome. They made the bigger animals out of some kind of lightweight cloth and a super light animatronic skeleton of some sort. To make them move, they had these dudes in tiny cars mounted underneath them who drove them around. As soon as we got home, I put the Honda on craigslist. My commute is two miles, and nothing could possibly be cooler than pulling into the parking garage in an Ankylosaur. The smaller dinosaurs were suits that people wore, but it was very easy to forget that there were people in there because they went to dinosaur acting school. The costumes and stuff were incredibly well done. If the show is coming to your town, go see it.

The arena was pretty full, mostly with children, but when the lights went out, all 4500 of their whiny kool-aid stained mouths were silent. This Paleontologist guy walks out and starts talking about how old the earth is, how it all began, and what the first dinosaurs looked like. This struck me as a kids’ version of the storyline in a porn movie. You could actually feel the longing for a glimpse of a dinosaur of any kind. They (we) were particularly amped about seeing the Chuck Norris of the Kickassic period, T-rex.

They brought out the brachiosaur and some other grazing type dinosaurs, and confirmed my theory that vegetarians have been pussies since the beginning of time. They ate stuff off of the fake trees and ran away when anything with pointy teeth came around. It was pretty cool to see them in actual size, though, because you see them on television and in textbooks and the narrator is all “The mighty Brontosaur was as tall as the kelp forests of South Africa and weighed as much as 40,000 sewing machines.” Leaving me with even less idea what it would be like to stand next to one than I had before. In this case, his scaly mug was actually 40 feet above mine, and his legs really were the size of Moroccan butter churns.

As far as events go, I’m generally against them. Going to an event means I have to leave the house, pay $20 to park my car, pay another $50 to get in the door, wait an hour to use a bathroom, and get home way past my bedtime. This event had none of that. Skirt had the hookup for cheap tickets and free parking, and the whole thing would be over by nine. Intermission revealed the single best feature, however. Take an event that is geared essentially toward children, make their parents drive them there, and the result is no waiting in the beer line. Not a bad deal when you throw in the dinosaurs.

In the second half of the show, the guy starts building up to the T-rex intro. “And at the top of the food chain…there was a single predator…a predator larger and more powerful than any on earth before that time or since! (during this time you could see a hundred little hands holding up their plastic dinosaurs, screaming “Tyranothoruth Rexth!” just like adults would do with plastic Solo™ cups and the words “Keg Schtand!”) …a predator so predatorial and deadly that some say he ate Jesus’s brother Craig…” I BRING YOU…
THE ULTIMATE PREDATOR!! TYRANNOSAURUS REX!!

And he came roaring and bellowing out, standing over the crowd about 30 feet high (that’s two Narwhals and a goat standing on end), walking around like a badass as children either passed out from ecstasy or started crying and got a little bit of snot on The Skirt’s sleeve. Which apparently stains, but she knew going into this that I’m unpredictable when I get scared.

So captain toothy was stomping around making me cry, the smaller dinosaurs scampering away, and another raptor-looking thing comes out from behind a smoldering volcano, wearing a nicely tailored black suit and carrying a clipboard. Everyone is sort of confused, and the well-dressed dinosaur says “Hi. Have a seat right there. Do you know why I’m here?”

“Grr?”

“I’m Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC, and you are on a show called ‘To Catch a Predator’…”

Then it got really weird. T-Rex started making excuses about how he was lost and just stopped to ask directions and stuff. The condoms and water-based lube were a friend’s of course (dinosaurs use magnums, by the way). Finally he bolted stage right but was tasered by the cops and taken to jail for an hour.

I promise this is the last time I will reference Dateline or Chris Hansen in a post until the next time I do it. Tonight we are going to watch WWE wrasslin’ live from the third row. So booyah…? I don’t know whether to despise myself or just lie about where I’ll be. Guaranteed to entertain, though.

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