Or should we call it “Son of Wednesday Brain Dump”?


Girlfriend:  Mommy, did you see me put valentines in all the cubbies?

Mad:  No, I didn’t.

Girlfriend:  That’s because I just sneaked.


Mister Bubby:  Mom, I gave my puppet an afro.

Mad:  Cool.

MB:  He’s also a cyclops.

Mad:  Really?

MB:  He’s a cyclops with an afro.  What could be more awesome than a cyclops with an afro?

Mad:  I can’t think of anything.


On my way to take Elvis to occupational therapy, I always pass this sign for “Well Pland” insurance, and I always think, “If you couldn’t plan enough room for that extra ‘ne,’ why should I trust you to plan for my insurance needs?”


As I mentioned on Monday, Elvis baked a cake for Abraham Lincoln’s birthday.  It was a yellow cake from a box, with chocolate frosting from a can, and I want to tell you that it is delicious.  I have tried to make yellow cake from scratch, and it has never turned out right.  Apparently it requires a delicate touch, which I do not have.  I can only execute the most robust baking techniques.  If there is such a thing as over-beating a mixture or adding an ingredient under-gradually, the concoction will not result in success.  I just don’t have that kind of coordination, or maybe it’s patience.  Whatever it is, I don’t have it.  Yellow cake is surprisingly high-maintenance–too persnickety for my clumsy hands, anyway.  It always ends up kind of dry and kind of not-delicious.  But I love yellow cake.  Maybe I just love yellow cake in a box.

When they talked about Saddam Hussein trying to buy yellow cake to make his weapons of mass destruction, it always reminded me of the delicious kind of yellow cake that one eats.  I should have baked a yellow cake when they executed Saddam Hussein, but I think I baked cookies instead.  An opportunity missed.  But the cookies were delicious.


This morning I accidentally ate a cherry-flavored Three Musketeers.  NOT EXPECTED, NOT ENJOYED.  I assume these were some kind of (ill-conceived) Valentine’s Day promotion.  ::shudder::  Why would I want my chocolate bar to taste like Children’s Tylenol?  Why?  (Yes, it was one of those “fun size” bars.  Like I could have “accidentally” eaten a full-size or even snack-size bar?  Please.  I have my intellectual integrity.)  Note:  If you like the cherry Three Musketeers because they remind you of cherry cordials, which you also like, I hope you got many of these items for serious percentages off at the post-Valentine’s Day clearance shelf–because I want you to be happy, gentle reader, whoever you are.


You know what else I have never liked (although I do not find it nearly as foul as a cherry-flavored Three Musketeers)?  Strawberry pie.  It’s always surprised me because I love strawberries, and I love pie.  Why should I not, then, love strawberry pie?  But I don’t.  Because the glaze they put on the strawberries in strawberry pie has always tasted slightly medicinal to me.  Some glazes are more medicinal than others.  Perhaps because the first strawberry pie I tasted was exceedingly medicinal, the flavors of all subsequent strawberry pies were psychologically tainted.  (When I say “psychologically tainted,” I am referring to my own psychology, not that of the strawberry pies, regardless of how that previous sentence was constructed.  Although it is funny to think about strawberry pies having some kind of collective psychosis based on one random human’s experience, use your common sense, gentle readers, not your knowledge of grammar, to help you through today’s blog.  It is early, and I am coming off a valium-cousin-informed sleep.)  So.  As I was saying, I do not like the strawberry pie, and it is a pity because many folks do pride themselves on their strawberry pies.  I do not mind strawberry-rhubarb pie, if it is heavy on the rhubarb because that seems to counteract the strawberry’s medicinal effect.  But I actually prefer straight rhubarb pie.  A good rhubarb cobbler is what I enjoy, actually, but that has nothing to do with strawberry pie.  And thus endeth the paragraph.


It’s snowing outside.  Big, fluffy flakes.  It doesn’t look like it will accumulate because the ground is so soggy from the previous day’s crazy-pounding rain.  I was just trying to come up with an apt description for yesterday’s rain, and I was reminded of the movie Bowfinger and its movie-within-the-movie, Chubby Rain.  I think it was the aliens that were supposedly making the raindrops bigger than usual, therefore “chubby.”  Yesterday there was some chubby rain in Portland, but I don’t think it was aliens.  Crap, that’s a lot of snow outside.  It seems to be sticking.  It’s chubby snow, incidentally.  It could be aliens, but probably not.

Bowfinger was a deeply flawed movie, but it had its moments.  I saw it with my father.  That is a long story.  Well, I’ll tell it to you.  We were supposed to go see Man of La Mancha together because my dad and my step-mother had tickets, but my step-mother had to go out of town unexpectedly or something, so my dad invited me to go because I like Man of La Mancha very much–and here’s the beauty part, gentle readers:  starring Robert Goulet. Yes.  (This was years ago, before he was dead.  Although I would see a production of Man of La Mancha starring dead Robert Goulet in a heartbeat, so to speak.  Yes, I would.)

Herein lies the tragic part of the story, gentle readers:  the performance was canceled because Mr. Goulet fell ill.  (No, this is not when he ended up dying.  He got better and lived for a few more years before dying.)  To say that we were disappointed…well, I think you can imagine what an enormous understatement that is.  There simply are no words.  But to continue with my story, my father and I had planned this evening out together, so he asked if I wanted to see a movie instead, but there weren’t many good movies playing at the time.  Not Man-of-La-Mancha-starring-Mr.-Robert-Goulet caliber, certainly.  But my brother-in-law had recently seen Bowfinger and said he’d laughed so hard he nearly peed his pants (his words), so we took that recommendation and went to see Bowfinger.  Moments of amusement squeezed between moments of discomfort because there are some movies you don’t need to see with your father so much.  But it was okay.

Now you know why the passing of Robert Goulet affected me so deeply.  It is, as Paul Harvey would say (or would have said, before he became dead himself), the rest of the story.


Okay, the chubby snow has to stop because I do NOT need anyone’s school getting canceled or let out early today.  I have to go grocery shopping because I was a chump and didn’t do it yesterday when it was merely pouring chubby rain.  Regrets, I have a few.


This video, of course, does not contain the best part of the episode where the kids kidnap Robert Goulet to perform at Bart’s treehouse.

ROBERT GOULET:  I think I should call my manager about this.

NELSON:  Your manager says for you to shut up!

ROBERT GOULET:  Vera said that?


Happy Wednesday, amigos.