I’m convinced Hyper Lad (the little dude formerly known as Speed Racer) and his dog, Buzz, are trying to kill me. I know one is only a drooling, yelping eating, pooping machine and the other is a dog, but hear me out.

I need to back up a bit first, though. Stick with me.

When I have [...]]]> by Richard

I’m convinced Hyper Lad (the little dude formerly known as Speed Racer) and his dog, Buzz, are trying to kill me. I know one is only a drooling, yelping eating, pooping machine and the other is a dog, but hear me out.

I need to back up a bit first, though. Stick with me.

When I have bad dreams (you know, the usual: pantless in the mall; desperately trying to remember my high-school locker combination or even location so I can get to that final for the class I just remembered I had because I hadn’t been to it all year; the cheese, the cheese), I usually deal with it by screaming like a little girl and waking up panting. Usually it’s no big deal. I just sniff the air and then quietly search the room in the dark for that rogue roquefort. Just to be sure. (Cheese is a cunning and dangerous foe.)

Then I go back to sleep and try to dream of something comforting, like being surrounded by a horde of shambling zombies moaning for my brains. (It’s always nice to be appreciated for your intelligence.) The point is, I don’t bother anyone else.

Hyper Lad, though. Hyper Lad has a lantern. Made to look like a Coleman camp lantern, this one runs on batteries and is very, very bright. When he has a bad dream, it’s time to find the lantern and begin making like Diogenes. Only this time he’s looking for a sleeping man, not necessarily an honest one.

I mention this because last night I was sleeping, perchancing to dream, when something woke me up. I managed to crack my eyelids just a bit and saw this shadow-distorted . . .thing looming over me. I’ll skip over the weeping and crying and moaning and thrashing and, instead, concentrate on Hyper Lad. He stood there, looking sad.

Eventually, I was able to discerne that he’d dreamed something bad and wanted a little comforting. Being the affable, loving daddy dude that I am, I immediately marched him back upstairs to his bed, muttering something about how it was going to be all right, the dream wouldn’t hurt him, and daddy didn’t really mean he was going to smother him in his sleep. Probably.

I turned on a little soothing music for the little dude and then stumbled back to bed.

Approximately 7.3 seconds later, She Who Must Be Obeyed started licking me with a very slimy tongue and the worst case of morning breath since Vinny the Vulture woke up from a two-day bender of roadkill and swamp water. Horrible smell, really, but I figured, hey, she must be feeling frisky, so why not? Although she should probably cut her nails a bit. And consider mouthwash.

Which was the point at which I opened my eyes and blearily saw a pointed snout, black fur and immense malice in the form of a small, black dog leaning on my side of the bed.

“Out,” Buzz barked. “Now.”

When doggies want out, it’s time to go out. I managed to get Buzz out and let him do his special brand of lawn watering, chased him for a couple of minutes to get him back inside and then back to bed. Just about the time that Hyper Lad came by to ask about helping him with breakfast.

All of which goes a long way toward explaining why I’m shambling around today, moaning “slllleeeeeeeeeeepppp.”

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George of the Jungle hates his name. I mean he really hates his name. Which makes it so very hard for me not to call him that. I know. I’m a very bad person. Sigh.

See, the deal is this: George of the Jungle got his name because, just a few short months after he got [...]]]> by Richard

George of the Jungle hates his name. I mean he really hates his name. Which makes it so very hard for me not to call him that. I know. I’m a very bad person. Sigh.

See, the deal is this: George of the Jungle got his name because, just a few short months after he got his driver license, he got surprised by one of the nefarious moving trees of North Carolina. It just jumped out behind him and smashed into the rear end of his car. Watch out for that tree!

As he sees it, every time I call him that in the blog, I’m making fun of him. But that’s just not true. Well, okay. Maybe a little. Anyway, I’ve magnanimously agreed to change his name. The problem then became, change it to what? The answer to that wasn’t all that hard.

Over the last week or so, I managed to accidentally uncover a whole bunch of buttons I used to wear pinned to my shirts, backpack and other places. I wore these in high school and college when I was right around the same age as Formerly Known as George of the Jungle. I was looking over them, getting a chuckle at the seriously high level of sarcasm and cynicism displayed on their round surfaces when the not-so-little dude came around and immediately set about stealing them all.

These were buttons that said stuff like “I’m surrounded by idiots” “Eat well. Stay fit. But die anyway.” “Never underestimate the power of stupidity.” and “If all else fails, lower your standards.” Hey, I never said I was a well-adjusted young dude.

Anyway, after that little display, I figured first impulses were correct. So, from now on, welcome back the Once and Future Sarcasmo. He’s caustic. He’s sarcastic. And he’s here to stay.

Now I’ve got Speed Racer hanging on my shoulder, giving me grief about his name. Seems he’s got a problem with being named after a cartoon character known for hanging around with a little kid and a kinetic monkey. I’m feeling in a giving mood.

Speed Racer is no more. Because the little dude is a comic book geek (wonder where he got that from?) and he is who he is, we’ve worked together to come up with his new name. And remember this was mostly his idea. Welcome to Hyper Lad. Well, what did you expect? He’s 11. It goes with the territory.

I’m still Richard, Zippy the Monkey Boy is still Zippy the Monkey Boy and She Who Must Be. . . is still She Who Must Be. . . Most of the time.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

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It’s almost the Fourth of July and you know what that means. BBQ’s and fireworks. Beer and fireworks. Celebrations and fireworks. Have I mentioned fireworks?

Speed Racer is already planning out what kind of explosions he wants to be in charge of, while the two older little dudes are speculating about the size of the boom [...]]]> by Richard

It’s almost the Fourth of July and you know what that means. BBQ’s and fireworks. Beer and fireworks. Celebrations and fireworks. Have I mentioned fireworks?

Speed Racer is already planning out what kind of explosions he wants to be in charge of, while the two older little dudes are speculating about the size of the boom they can get out of the latest mortar rounds.

All of which scares me tremendously. Especially considering I remember all the crazy stuff I used to do with fireworks when I was their age. I mean, seriously. When I think back about that now, I can’t believe not only that I didn’t kill someone, but that I still have all my fingers and toes.

I mean, not that this was me or anything, but I remember know about people who shot other people with bottle rockets shot from plastic piping. And that was the tame stuff.

Fireworks safety is no joke. People do die from this every year. There are a few precautions you can take to make celebrating our country’s independence slightly less dangerous. These come directly from the National Council On Fireworks Safety.

Use fireworks outdoors only.

Obey local laws. If fireworks are not legal where you live, do not use them.

Always have water handy. (A hose or bucket).

Only use fireworks as intended. Don’t try to alter them or combine them.

Never relight a “dud” firework. Wait 20 minutes and then soak it in a bucket of water.

Use common sense. Spectators should keep a safe distance from the shooter and the shooter should wear safety glasses.

Alcohol and fireworks do not mix. Have a “designated shooter.”

Only persons over the age of 12 should be allowed to handle sparklers of any type.

Do not ever use homemade fireworks of illegal explosives: They can kill you! Report illegal explosives to the fire or police department in your community.

Let’s do this safely this year. And make sure we’re all here to do the same darn stupid things again next year.

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