Google Is Not My CoPilot

Google is not my copilot.

No. I am not fond of Google as my home page. The #1 son set it up, after my contentious departure from my old internet provider. Since I was no longer using their home page, the boy thought he was doing me a favor.

Google is a crappy copilot. He's the kind of copilot who hijacks the plane. Ever type in a website address and end up at Google? Uh huh. The website still shows in the address bar, but you're on Google's home page. You can't fly where you want to with Google as your copilot. Google controls your destination.

Google is the kind of copilot who will argue loudly with you about airline scheduling, cause you to overshoot your destination, and make you lose your job.

Google is the kind of copilot who lights up a cigarette, sprays on cologne, chews peanuts with an open mouth to taunt your deadly peanut allergy, says your uniform makes you look fat, picks boogers out of his nose and flips them at you, emails you porn, takes off his shoes and socks and bites his toenails, yells "I know you are, but what am I?" every time you point out his transgressions, and plays Sean Connery to your Alex Trebek for the entire flight.

Google is a bad apple.

A Most Scathingly Ridiculous Idea

Allow me to step up on my soapbox tonight. Or don't. I will step up on my soapbox whether you like it or not. Because I CAN. And you can't stop me. Try as you might, you cannot kick my soapbox out from under me over the internet. Now where was I...

The #1 son has been leaving skin on the floor at basketball open gyms for a month. He attended open gyms all summer, except for the last two days, during which he was sidelined by a concussion that he got playing basketball in open gym. He spent four days at team camp in Tennessee. He has worked on his own for an hour a day all summer. Now it is basketball season. Official practice started last week. #1's JV coach did not show up the first day. Nor had he attended any open gyms or the team camp. The point I am shouting out from the top of my soap box is that he does not know these freshman boys, and has only seen the sophomores play on his team last year.

On the second day of practice, Coacher showed up and proceeded to tell the boys, "Well, I don't know if we'll win any games this year. All of our points are down at the other end of the gym, practicing with the varsity. If we score at all, it will come from offensive rebounds. I will play 8 players each game. There are only seven minutes in a quarter, and that's not enough time to play everybody. In the next week or two, I will talk to each one of you and tell you where you stand." So much from Debbie Downer on his first day with his team.

For two days, he went over the offense, then had the players run stairs for the rest of the time. On the third day, he picked his 8. That's what #1 told me. I laughed at him. As no stranger to the coaching world, I told him that their first game was still five weeks away, and that nobody could decide which 8 players he's going to play all season after seeing them play for two days.

Au contraire. According to #1, the coach inserts the same 8 players into the plays each day. The other five are shuffled off to a side basket and ignored. I find it hard to believe that Coacher has made a decision in two days that will last from November to March, spanning 16 games. Hard to believe that he is prepping this team for varsity in a couple of years.

Who knew that coaching could be so easy? Take two days, whether you need them or not, and choose your players for the year. The rest can fill in if you actually need to scrimmage five on five in practice, and they can certainly take part in your fundraisers. But they dare not expect to play in games. There's not enough time.

Surely the #1 son is mistaken. Who could make such a snap decision? I am not saying all the kids should get equal playing time. I'm saying that it is still four weeks until the first game, and you never know which kid is going to grow to 6'5" in a couple of years, and just maybe they should all get a chance to run through the plays in practice at this early date so that they can be prepared in case there is an epidemic of swine flu or failing grades or sprained ankles.

Is that asking too much?

Can you help me drag this soapbox back into the garage? I need it when I rehearse with my garage band, Mommy's Got A Headache.

We Need An Intervention

Farmer H went to the auction this afternoon. That is not a good thing. On Sunday afternoons, Farmer H turns into Collector H. I really think he has a sickness. He can't help himself. He can never have enough animals. What started with three chickens has now turned into a hillbilly petting zoo.

Just today, Collector H bought 10 chickens, six of them roosters, a giant tom turkey, and a whopping gray buck rabbit. That's to replace the soft, spotted bunny, Spot, who tunneled out of his Farmer H defective rabbit pen with a dirt floor and was last weekend eaten by the bloodthirsty canines that call the Mansion home. Father of the Year H has not yet broken that news to The Pony. The Pony thinks Spot is still roughing it over around the BARn area.

I don't know why we have to have so many roosters. This makes AT LEAST 15 roosters. The handful of hens we have are going to drop dead. Roosters are not good for anything. They fight and they crow and they chase the hens. And they EAT. I would sooner pour my money down a lottery hole that feed these useless, stinking, feathered friends of Collector H. Nothing I say seems to phase him. I don't know how to get him help for his mental illness. Yesterday, he was saying how The Pony told him we needed some sheep. I don't think so. Collector H said they had a llama and a sheep and a prairie dog for sale at the auction.

I must find a way to stop him before he buys again.

Our Distinguished Guest

Are you ready? Here's the story....of a Bennett Wallaby named Quigley...who was busy hopping all over Mrs. HM's room.











Yes, Quigley was our special guest on Thursday. His handler/daddy gave us a 50-minute info-packed look into Quigley's life. There are better pictures on the DVD the #1 son recorded, but this was quick, and was from his phone. Yes. I let all the students use their phones that hour to take photos of Quigley. Because really, when is the next time they're going to be that close to a Bennett Wallaby?

As you can see, Quigley was all decked out in his diaper. He's only 8 months old, you know. Still a bit of a baby, with a baby bottle for comfort if he needs it. He's lactose intolerant, though. So it's soy milk from The Devil's Playground. Not the Tasmanian Devil. But Quigley's roots are in Tasmania.

We learned that Missouri does not require any type of licensing to possess a little Quigley of your very own. He will set you back about $1300 to $1500, though. And you better know what you're getting into. He has to be taken away from his momma at a tender age, which may be 3 months if my memory serves me correctly. Then you have to bottle feed him every four hours. And he can't lie flat, because it messes up his insides, so you have to hang a laundry bag kind of contraption on your bed headboard so he can sleep on his back while hanging. It has to be where you sleep, because Quigley can't make noise, other than a hissing sound when he's upset, so you need him to be able to get up and hop on your head to tell you when he's hungry. He can travel around with you in a backpack, but don't let him get overheated or he can die, because he doesn't sweat, he only breathes hard, and his ears dissipate some heat. He needs shade to cool down, and a black backpack is not a good place to stash him.

Quigley likes salty snacks as treats, and when the six kids in his human daddy's family sit down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, Quigley somersaults over the back of the couch and lands in the middle of it. He also likes to play that trick when the young daughter sets up her Holly Hobby village. He will chew on electrical cords if you don't watch him.

A Bennett Wallaby does not have an odor. The only time Quigley smells is when his diaper is full. He does not like wearing a diaper, and at home, he gets to run around stark naked in his pen. Within 30 minutes of losing the diaper, Quigley does not smell. He's a really good groomer. For a special treat when Quigley is out hopping around during non-profit lecturing tours, he gets a cheese puff every now and then. At home, he gets only 3 of them a day. Quigley loves him some cheese puffs! He holds one in his hands and munches away. In the photo, Quigley was on his second cheese puff, and it slipped out of his hands momentarily.

Quigley is growing up, and starting to feel his testosterone. When the speaking tour abates, Quigley is going to have a little operation. Then he won't try to box with people. He's not very good at it yet. He tried it twice in the classroom, and got a good scolding from his daddy. That scolding was in the form of getting picked up by his tail, held upright, and daddy's nose being placed right against Quigley's nose, and "NO!" spoken to him in no uncertain terms. That's the right way to pick him up--by the tail. If you pick him up under the arms, you can crush his ribs, and give him internal bleeding, and he'll die. That was the main rule: don't pick him up. Also, to scratch his ears instead of pet him. That's what happened to the two boxees. They petted Quigley on the shoulder. That must be asking for a fight in Wallaby language.

The visit was quite enlightening. I hope we can get Quigley and his daddy to come back every year. You would be amazed at the visitors entering Mrs. HM's classroom during the Quigley hour. Three cooks waltzed right in. Mr. Principal came in twice, but he's entitled, because it was payday, and it is his ship to command. Numerous students and assorted faculty and staff pressed their noses up against the door window. I had to keep the door closed so Quimby wouldn't get out and hop willy-nilly through the school.

So...the kangaroo in a backpack turned out to be a Bennett Wallaby. But who's complaining? Certainly not my students. How much cuter can you get than a wallaby in a diaper in a backpack? Eating a cheese puff, no less!

Nothing Of Interest To Report

No pictures yet from my Quigley visit. Maybe in a couple of days. He was as cute as a bug's ear, that little hoppy rodent.

Until then, there is nothing I care to report.

Random Thought Thursday 11/5/09

I feel like I need a hip replacement.

A TV personality touted that story of the bodies-in-the-basement raper by giving a brief synopsis, then adding, "...and you'll hear what the police found that was really weird." Oh, really? Keeping the bodies of his victims in the basement was not really weird? Really?

Thank the Gummi Mary, that full moon is on the wane.

Why is it that when kids get in trouble, they can't take responsibility for their rule-breaking actions? Why must it always be, "You don't like us, do you?" HELLO! Where were you the first day of school when I specifically told you that the way you would be treated was by the way you behaved? Yeah. Get over yourselves. If you don't want to sit alone for the rest of the week, maybe you should start following the rules like everyone else. It's not rocket science.

An inservice on METH when you were expecting HEROIN is quite a disappointment.

Wearing a T-shirt that is imprinted with The owner of this shirt may spontaneously burst into song is kind of like asking for a grape Slurpee to be flung in your face. You fans of GLEE will know what I'm talkin' about.

I found out that Lying Diabetic H has been scarfing donuts willy-nilly. Oh, but he thinks it's OK because he gets just the cake donuts, without any icing on them.

My school mailbox contained an invitation to the FCCLA Senior Citizens Dinner. I'm hoping that everybody got one.

I hate Google. It has this cute trick lately. A cute trick where no matter what you type into the search area, you are taken to Google. Against your will. But it still reads as the site you typed in. But you are on Google. That's hijacking. And when you TRY to go to Google, you get a blank page that says 'Done' at the bottom. Google is not my friend. I hate Google.

Bet You Can't Top THIS!

On Thursday, I'm supposed to be having a kangaroo in my room. Not 'having it' as in giving birth to it. Not 'having it' as in scheduling a five-course meal and inviting it as the guest of honor. Not 'having it' as in consuming it as a source of protein. Nope. ScienceCrony has scheduled a guest speaker for her three biology classes, and has offered to lend him to us during 5th hour. The dude is supposed to speak on exotic animals, and he allegedly brings a kangaroo right into the classroom.

Who could pass up an offer like this? Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. It is reported to be a SMALL kangaroo. I asked, because I didn't know if I should rearrange my room to allow more space. OK, I also had a secret desire to select a certain student to box the kangaroo. But ScienceCrony says it is a SMALL kangaroo. Like they don't know how to defend themselves. I bet it's like tossing a child into the water to teach it to swim. Kangaroo mommas just might shove Junior out of the pouch and into a cage match.

And if the thought of a SMALL kangaroo doesn't make you say, "AWWW," then maybe finding out that the speaker dude carries his kangaroo in a backpack will do it. In a freakin' backpack, people! A SMALL kangaroo. It doesn't get any better than that!

I hope the little 'roo is not evil like that chipmunk I tried to save from my cats...unsuccessfully and necessitating a tetanus shot from the County Health Center. I hope my students don't scare the little 'roo to death. I hope the little 'roo doesn't get confused and jump into some student's backpack. And I wonder if the little 'roo will make that little hop and flip move and dive into the backpack like it's a pouch.

If this speaker dude does not show up, I will be very disappointed. I am going to take the #1 son out of his English class to record the event for posterity. And for The Pony. Provided the speaker dude will allow it, of course.

Don't hate me because I have the summers off, people. Hate me because I have a SMALL kangaroo coming to my classroom. In a backpack.