Is zson really TRson?

TR likes to joke that he's really my son's father, and I'm starting to question whether that's a joke because over a five day span last week zson did the following:

1. At his nursery school graduation (which I did not attend due to work commitments and my general view that this wasn't a big deal, which apparently was not shared by many other dads who took off from work to be there and probably think I'm a heel), while everyone else was singing songs and reciting poems in unison, zson and his friend Danny yelled the closest things to expletives that 5-year-olds know. Stuff like "Underpants!" and "Butts!" and "Poop!" and "Penis!" zwoman was mortified.

2. After his nursery school graduation, zson and Danny and some other kids went to a nearby pizzeria with their respective moms. Danny dared zson to pick his nose and eat it. zson obliged. zwoman was mortified. This has become one of his signature gross-out moves.

3. He pulled the dry erase penis coloring stunt. I almost fainted.

4. He announced that when he grows up he wants to be a rock star or a baker.

5. I asked him why he was walking funny and he said "I'm stretching my balls out, they are sticking to my legs." He was going commando because that's his thing lately.

6. Later that day I was in the kitchen and he yelled from the living room "Daddy I pooped but don't worry my pants are clean." I asked how that's possible and he replied "The poop is on the floor." Apparently he was trying to make himself fart and instead he shat. His commando status allowed the (inordinately large) shit in question to fall nearly unfettered out of his shorts and onto my floor. He remained unfazed throughout. zwoman was mortified.

7. We went fishing and about 15 minutes in he announced that he had to poop. The closest storefront was a vintage car store that I've always wanted to check out so we hustle over there. I haven't showered yet that day so I'm oily and stinky and we both smell like sunblock and unwashed armpits. We walk in, zson bent over with intestinal distress, and the young guy who works there greets us and asks if he can help us. I point to the to-die-for-beautiful tangerine 1972 Porsche 911 RS lightweight (which is worth something like $1.4 million) and say "I'd love to buy the RS but I can't. My colleague here could really use a bathroom though."

He points us right to the impeccably clean loo. Immediately upon mounting the bowl, zson rips a monstrously loud fart, a deep basso booming blast of a thing that I'm sure was clearly heard in the showroom. He then announces (in his outside voice) that he doesn't have to poop after all, and it was all just a fart. So we get cleaned up and come out to the showroom and the young guy is laughing at us and he knew that I knew cars from my whole line about the RS and we talked about all the beautiful stuff they have in the showroom, including an old 356, some newer Ferraris, a Ford GT (which another sales guy started up and goosed the throttle so a potential buyer could listen to its angry engine note), and several other less audacious 911s. At some point I turn back to the RS and see the bottom half of zson sticking out of the passenger side window, his upper half firmly planted inside it, squirming around and torquing on 44-year-old irreplaceable car parts. Mercifully he was wearing shorts with no zipper or buttons, otherwise he would've scratched the door all to hell, but I still almost had a heart attack and pulled him out of the car. None of the worm guts on his shirt wound up inside the car, as far as I could tell. The young guy was not fazed and continued to talk about cars they're getting in, cars they used to have, etc. and when I turn around again zson is wiping his greasy paws on the 2007 GT3 RS (which is worth a mere $200k or so), trying to pry the driver's side open and getting kidprints all over the thing. As I pulled him off the car he announced "This is my favorite car here" and the young guy said "Me too! This is the best driver's car we've ever had, in my opinion. You have great taste in cars!" We were even invited to come back anytime we want. Despite ripping hellacious farts, sullying over a million dollars worth of cars, and generally acting like a jackass, zson charmed the daylights out of some total stranger while giving me palpitations.

zson has TR written all over him.

It Gets Chili in October

This past weekend while some of us were canoeing on the Russian river, lounging by the pool at PGA National, taking in football games at MetLife Stadium, or attending an animal husbandry conference in Pinehurst, NC; a group of highly trained athletes came together in the nation's capital to put their reputations and their stomachs on the line in the Ben's Chili Bowl World Chili Eating Championship.   Not since TR's performance in the 2001 Festival of San Gennaro Cannoli Eating Contest have I seen such dedication to one's craft.    

In the end, Nathan's Hot Dog Eating champion Joey Chestnut was victorious by ingesting seven and a half bowls of Ben's Chili Bowl chili in just six minutes.  That is over 1.8 GALLONS of chili.  This my friends is the price for glory.  

The attached video is worth a watch just for the fantastic emceeing job by Sam Barclay from the IFOCE, even if the beheading imagery might be a bit distasteful in the current environment.

Welcome to the Bummingdome

I'm stuck in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle of bummingness, a place I haven't visited much since I've become a father. This magical place can only be visited by following these three steps:

1) Catch a brutal cold and try to ignore it.

2) Ensure sleep deprivation all week (enhancing the effects of Step 1).

3) Gorge on processed pork and rich beer at a German restaurant on a Thursday night.

By Friday, you will understand the Bermuda Triangle and be a runny-nosed, feverish mess like me. I'm a quart deep on coffee at 9:30 AM. My first urine of the day was neon yellow, and I'm all tweaked out. Other than that I'm perfect.

I think I ate 69 mini pieces of bratwurst, weisswurst and potato pancakes last night. They were passed around on a tray by authentic German waitresses. The outfits of one of the authentic German waitresses made the restaurant experience a million times better. The husky, busty German woman had her curvy figure (and enormous bosoms) stuffed into a traditional German dress. There was cleavage spilling everywhere. It was tremendous. After my second giant mug, I was absolutely smitten. After my fourth giant mug, I was ready to tell her I loved her. After my fifth giant mug...I crawled home, unfurling noxious pork farts the likes of which haven't been smelled since...the last time I ate a lot of German sausage. Nobody won.

What made the night better (and this morning worse) was the discovery of two taps in a corner of the restaurant. I could fetch all the Spaten Oktoberfest beer I wanted without having to go to the bar. It was awesome. And costly.

I feel old and bloated right now. I will count the hours until I can retreat home.