Sometimes, Jack Talks Like His Head Is ...

One could surmise that the key to success is at least sounding as if you know what you’re talking about, even if you don’t.
If this weren’t supposed to be a family-oriented chronicle, I might be tempted to write: “. . . as if you know what you’re talking about, even if you’re talking out an orifice other than your mouth.”
I could cite examples of folks who do that, but why frustrate Green Bay Packers fans any more than necessary about Brett Favre. As my cheesehead bride, Kate, repeatedly tells my hopelessly romantic Vikings fan/son, Brendan: “Just wait till the end of the season, and Brent’ll break your heart.” (The cheeseheads just LOVE to call him Brent.)
Anyway, enough about horses’ anatomy. PLUS, this is a family-oriented chronicle, so I’ll forgo the temptation. Besides, I wouldn’t DARE say that about a grandkid. And, as my Uncle Frank used to say, “All kids are grand.”
Comes now Jack, who seems to have mastered the art of sounding confident, even if one wonders whether he actually heard a particular gem of wisdom somewhere — on Animal Planet, on the playground, in the dinosaur aisle at Target — or whether he’s making it up.
I’m tempted to suggest that he’s like an ostrich, burying his head in the sand to search for facts.
But oftentimes, he makes his case so convincingly that I end up shaking my head in wonder at his depth and breadth of knowledge instead of writing him off as a blowhard (in a good way, son).
Like the other day, after Jack and I and Patrick and Vincent had walked Jazzy and Dewey to the park. (Luke passed on the chance to walk the dogs, as he is on the opposite end of the spectrum from the Dog Whisperer.)
I said we’d better head back home, and Jack wondered why. I noted the sweltering temperature, which doesn’t bother Jack because he’s one of those play-hard kids who doesn’t mind sweat and dirt as long as he’s having fun. And I pointed out that Jazzy and Dewey were panting because they were so hot.
“Dogs have to pant to cool off,” I explained, “because dogs don’t have sweat glands.”
Jack nodded knowingly, thoughtfully.
“Uh-oh,” I thought. “Here comes an explanation.”
Sure ’nuf, he piped up: “They’re not like ostriches, then.”
“How so?”
“Because ostriches sweat from their heads and their feet to cool off.”
I asked how he knew that, and he changed the subject. But I’ve got to wonder where he came up with that tale, because he sounded so convincing.
Sweaty-headed ostriches, inDEED. I bet the lad’s never even SEEN an ostrich work up a sweat, such as in a race, which would work up a sweat, theoretically.
Until NOW:

I

Or an ostrich fight:



OR, for SURE, an ostrich sticking it’s nose where it doesn’t belong. What’s it think it IS, a dog?



Ostrich sweat would be the least of the problems after that on, IMO. (For those less enlightened, the term “IMO” is young folks’ texting shorthand for “in my opinion.” Sometimes, they make me FOTCLMAO, or at least, LMAO.)
This topic got me all lathered up wondering why ostriches bury their heads in the sand. Turns out they don’t, but it just appears that way, and there are a variety of reasons for it.
My favorite explanation is this, from the wiseGEEK website: “possible source of the rumor that ostriches bury their heads in the sand could be the scientific fact that, when threatened, the ostrich will fall forward in the sand and lay its head to the ground, so that its body will resemble a bush to passing predators. This action is especially common when the ostrich is attempting to protect its eggs. Because the head and neck are the same color as the sand, to an observer, it may look as though the ostriches bury their heads in the sand.”
And now, my friends, I’m going to go bury my head. In a pillow. Maybe it’s made of ostrich feathers.

Apples Don't Fall Far From the Purple Tree

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, football season, which brings out the worst in people, amid the rivalries.
F’rinstance, I learned a long time ago not to call son Brendan on Sundays, because he doesn’t answer the phone during football games. (If he happens to call ME, I know it’s a commercial break.) He’s a Vikings fan, with a fondness for da Bears, as well.
Witness this photo, grabbed from a TV screen lo those many years ago when he cheered a Vikings score back in Randy Moss’ daze. Speaking of, Moss tossed him a football after scoring lo, those many years ago.
Don't ask ME to explain the turban; I have NO idea. Maybe he was wearing it in hopes of predicting that Brett Favre someday would turn his back on the Packers, after retiring, then playing for the Jets, then retiring, then playing for the Vikings, then retiring, then returning to the Vikings.
I don't want to get into that scenario, as my Cheesehead bride, Kate, still is among Packer fans who love to hate Favre to this day for going to their top rival. (Their favorite saying: "We'll never forget you, Brent.")
Back on point then: Here's evidence that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in Brendan's household. Just got this cyber photo from Brendan of his firstborn, Avery, (OBVIOUSLY, during a commercial):

I texted this message back, although it displayed my lack of texting prowess: “I think it’s adorable. Kate sex it’s child abuse!”
To which Brendan replied: “Tell Kate Avery says the Packers suck… his first words! We’re giving him purple breast milk Thursday!”
Now, I’ve gotta say that would be spouse abuse. Like, how many blueberries will he make Erica eat to turn her milk purple?
Meanwhile, my bride is rolling on the floor (LHAO, as they say in the text world), saying, “Did you SEE what you texted?”
OOPS, NOW I see it. Why do they put the x and the z so close together? (Oddly enough, neither Brendan nor I had noticed the typo; too much testosterone flowing to the football quadrant of the brain rather than the sexual, I suppose.)
"Honey, You’re an EDITOR,” she admonished.
Well, I’m gonna wrap this up now before it gets even worse. After all, we’ve got a case of child abuse and two cases of spouse abuse.
Personally, I don’t have any football allegiances; well, OK, I’ll confess: I don’t care who wins, as long as somebody knocks the snot out of Notre Dame whenever possible. Which, of course, leaves me disappointed this weekend, with the Fighting Irish winning their season opener against Purdue. I haven't cried so much since "Rudy."


And I hadn't cried THAT much since "Brian's Song," which has reduced men far stronger than I to tears, so that's no shame.