Good Morning Boris

It's been a few years now since the screen door fell off the sliding glass door that leads out onto the deck at the back of my house. (For the benefit of Brits, for whom screen doors are as common as 6 litre V8 pick-up trucks, the screen door is a plastic-framed mesh door that slides over the glass door space so you can have the door open in the summer and not have bugs fly in your house.) I never bothered to replace it, a) because this is St.Louis and it's always too hot to have the door open in the summer, and b) because I'm too fucking lazy. Now I'm glad I didn't, because nature has provided its own version, in the form of a large spider that has built its web over the outside of the sliding door.

Apparently flies can't see the glass which is only an inch or two behind the web; the spider has been there for a couple of weeks and has rebuilt the web every day. It seems to be getting significantly fatter too. I christened it Boris, of course, in honor of the best rock group ever. Mrs Bison isn't quite so keen since she can't use the door to get out onto the deck now. She forgot once and ended up wearing the web as a hairnet; she wants to clear Boris out because it's stupid to be held hostage by a spider, but we can go out through the basement door instead, and I want to see how big he'll get. The only drawback is that we can't open the glass door in case he comes into the house and carries off our child...

Lots Of Balls

I have to play golf in a few weeks so I figured I'd better go to the driving range at some point and hit some golf balls, in a (probably forlorn) attempt to ensure that my outing is not a complete fucking comical disaster. Mrs Bison had nothing to do so I dragged her along so that she could sit behind me and make encouraging noises every time I hit one about twenty feet.

When we first arrived I drove up to the building where you get the balls and shoved my green bucket under the machine. I got ninety, on the basis that if I'm going to screw something up then I'm going to screw it up properly. Normally I'd put the bucket of balls in the footwell of the front passenger seat so that I could drive over to the tees, but on this occasion my good lady wife was occupying the seat. This gave me the opportunity to walk up to her, open the door, and exclaim in a loud voice "Will you hold my balls?"

She actually accused me of bringing her along solely so that I could do that. As if...

Five Rings Of Boredom

So the Olympics is starting. Fucking wonderful - the giant international soap opera of sports is upon us, complete with hopelessly incongruous events such as basketball, and a guaranteed self-congratulatory excess of patriotic TV coverage. Normal service will be suspended while we are all deluged with unwanted and meaningless crap about all the athletes and their "personal struggles" and "path to victory".

I was a bit surprised that Paul Hamm, the gold medal winning US gymnast from the 2004 Olympics, had to pull out. Apparently he was unable to recover in time from a broken right hand. I did wonder whether losing the use of a hand was really a valid reason to withdraw though - couldn't he have just got a hand from the judges like last time?

A Happy Event

This attractive female colleague was telling me today how she was congratulated on her pregnancy by a woman in the office, the only problem being that she wasn't actually pregnant. This never goes down well with women, but in my experience it's only other women who make this mistake. It could be because we men are all way to sensitive and considerate, although it's more likely a survival mechanism which is deeply rooted in the male of the species. My guess is that all the men without this innate sense of when to keep their mouths shut died out years ago, unable to reproduce and perpetuate their DNA.

I did wonder how this mistake could be made - the non-pregnant woman in question is not in the slightest bit porky. But then I heard that she'd been wearing one of those fashionable "baby doll" style blouse things. (Or whatever the correct term is.) Everyone looks pregnant in those things. Anorexic women with skeletal xylophone-like rib cages look about six months gone if they wear one. They should come with a printed warning for unwary blokes: Wearer May Look Pregnant Even Though She Is Not. Do Not Compliment.

Of course, as I pointed out above, blokes are generally genetically programmed not to make this mistake (or indeed to give a shit whether a woman is pregnant or not, as a rule). However the reverse circumstance might be more of an issue - I'll bet there's been a few guys who got a woman back to their hotel room only to discover that underneath the fashionable blouse she was, in fact, actually pregnant. Or maybe just very fat. It's impossible to tell in advance...

A Little Slice Of Cardiopathy

There seems to be a competition in progress between pizza delivery companies to see which one can devise the menu most likely to cause you to clutch your chest and crumble to your knees, gasping for breath, as a white light appears and your dead grandmother calls to you. I know pizza isn't exactly a health food at the best of times, but the latest plan to boost the income of the big pizza companies (suggested motto: "Delivering Death To Your Door, One Disc At A Time") is dessert. Yes, after indulging in five pizzas for $5, or whatever the latest offer is, customers have to be persuaded that they will need another course.

This being a pizza company, dessert was never going to be a slice of watermelon, was it? These desserts, now advertised at every conceivable opportunity on TV, basically consist of big chunks of dough, either covered in chocolate, wrapped around chocolate or to be dipped in chocolate. Don't get me wrong - I like a bit of unhealthy food. Tonight I had fried fish and chips, for instance. But this stuff is just taking the piss. It's like daring your heart to give out on you.

And when you watch the commercials, what do all the people ordering the pizza, plus doughy dessert, plus two litre bottle of sugary Pepsi, look like? They're all slim, healthy and happy, of course, just like all the people in TV Advertiser Land. Where are all the lardy fat bastards with buttocks that hang either side of their chairs, who inhabit all the pizza places I've ever been? That's what I want to know...