The Final Frontier

It's the end of an era.  The space program is being outsourced.  This breaks my heart.  I grew up watching true heroes put their lives on the line in order to further mankind's knowledge of our universe.  


In honor of this passing, here are some obscure pictures of our modern day explorers.

One time, someone accused Buzz Aldrin of the moon missions

being fake.  He punched them.

...and so it goes.

A New Look at Love is...

Remember the Love is... comics from the 70s.  All our mom's had them plastered on the refrigerator to remind our dad's as they grabbed their next Miller High Life.  

Here's a little walk down memory lane.

A special anniversary song.

Next week is the 7th anniversary of my divorce from the lovely X Mrs. Uncle Rusty.  This is dedicated to you, sweet heart.  I hope you're enjoying your new life in Tijuana

Uncle Rusty's Dating and Golf Advice

My first job was as a golf caddy.  I learned how to judge yardage and read greens with the best of them.  I’m a terrible golfer.  But, put me on your bag and I’ll save you at least four strokes a round. 

My dating life is much the same.  I have come over the top and sliced every relationship I’ve ever had into the woods.  But, I know, in theory, what works in romance. 

So, I’m here to offer you some advice.  I’m not your wingman.  I’m your caddy.  Let’s go to the first tee. I’ll choose your clubs and check the yardage. We’ll get through this together.

PAST RELATIONSHIPS:

Avoid talking about any past relationships. It’s like hitting the ball into the rough.  Never talk about x wives.  You, sir, have double bogied all your past relationships.  You might have been married to Satan’s sister, but you’re not so great yourself.  The bad news is, sorry to say, you are just as culpable in your past romantic failures as your former lovers are.  I know that truth is going to leave a mark.  Take the stroke for the unplayable lie and play through.

Rehearse this line: “We grew apart.  We wanted different things out of life.  I wish her the best.”

Keep repeating it until it sounds convincing.  Being able to recite this line will increase the possibility of a second date by 23 percent.

MEETING THE PETS

When you pick her up, if she has a dog, it will be there to greet you first.  If you get growled at, you’ve landed in a fairway bunker.  You might recover, but it’s going to take a miracle shot.

I always put my left hand in a baggie of bacon.  Just to get the bacon smell.  The dog loves it and comes right to me and starts licking my hand.  If she doesn‘t have a dog, you can ask to use the restroom and clean up real quick.

Don’t avoid the rookie mistake of putting food in your pocket.  Having a schnauzer attacking your crotch can be awkward and dangerous.

THE KIDS

She’ll probably have kids.  They’ll probably hate you.  They’re the water hazards of dating.  I have learned to acknowledge their existence, and ignore them.  Keep your hips squared and parallel to the target line.  Don’t worry about the little vampires.  They resent you because you’re trying to take their mother away.  They resent you for trying to replace daddy.  Remain cordial and detached.  They’ll soon lose interest and go back into their lairs to listen to death metal.

DATES

You haven’t played this course before.  Play conservatively.  I never let their expectations get too high.  Don’t take your date to an expensive restaurant or exciting night club.  You’re not that cool.  You can’t pull off that shot consistently.

Find a happy medium between a four star restaurant and Taco Bell.  Avoid Olive Garden.  The carbs will make you sluggish.  I’ve found Red Lobster is a safe bet.  I know white wine is always the right choice.  Ordering Mahi Mahi makes me sound exotic and sexy.

BACK  HOME

The date’s over.  You walk her to her door and she asks you in.  Congratulations.  You’ve reach the green.  It’s time to slow down, breath deep and figure out the line.  Here’s where my advice comes to a close.  I unfortunately, have the yips and have three putted my way through life.  I only score is she allows me a “gimme.”  

Seriously. WTF?

I'm weird.  But I can't wrap my head around this one.

Flatulence and First Dates

The dating situation hasn’t improved.  I’ve decided to go back into my past and analyze my past behavior and see if a pattern develops.  Since they raised my insurance copay, and my stories put Dr. Stan on Prozac, I’m going to bare my soul to my loyal reader and let them help me solve my problems.

My first date is a good place to start.  I remember the thrill and excitement when Suzie said she’d go out with me.  I was so excited.  I spent hours washing and waxing the Pinto.  I went to Nygren’s Men’s Wear and bought a super cool Op shirt.  I spent hours with the curling iron making sure my hair had the proper amount of lift.  Before I left the house, I put on extra strength Clearasil and Hai Karate aftershave.  I was irresistible. 

I picked up my date.  I had an incredible evening planned.  We began at Big Cheese Pizza, where you could keep the cups and the Canadian bacon was extra spicy.  I knew she’d want a souvenir of her evening of romantic bliss.  After dinner we went to the twin theaters for a movie.  I picked the best first date ever:  Halloween.  After two hours of slashing, blood splatters and full frontal nudity, I knew she was in the mood.  Of course, she wanted to go home.

As I drove her to the house, I felt the pork products from the pizza starting to metabolize.  Things were about to get interesting.  But, I did a quick calculation and determined I could take her home, get my good night kiss, and jump in my car before the inevitable venting.

We arrived at her house and she told me her dad was home and she’d love for me to meet him.  I figured I could make it.  I went in the house and met her father.  He really liked to talk.  I mean, REALLY liked it.  He went on and on about something.  I nodded and perspired.  Methane was building pressure by the minute.  I didn’t think I was going to make it.  Finally, he excused himself and left.  Thank goodness.  One more minute and I was going to suffer internal injuries.

Suzie and I walked outside.  Once I reached the front steps I told her to wait one minute and I sprinted to the street.  I stood in the middle of Madison Street, with my hand up to keep her from coming any closer, and had my release.  She heard me and laughed.  After I was done, I went back and got my good night kiss and skulked into the night.

I wrote the situation off as bad luck.  I didn’t know it was the beginning of a trend.

It's Reunion Season

My sister called last night.  She let it slip that there is a family reunion planned this summer.  I also found out they have been having reunions for years.  Obviously, I don’t have enough class and dignity to attend family events.  That’s OK with me.  I don’t want to spend the week with them anyway.  They are proof that the only thing more obnoxious than a bunch of drunken Irish is a bunch of sober Irish.  No offense to the mother country, but I think the only way we have personality is through inebriation. 

My family thinks I’m an embarrassment.  I argue that they are just as embarrassing.  Take my sister Bea.  She lives in the suburbs of Houston and runs the West Cypress Yorkshire Terrier Spa and Retreat.  You go out back and the little rat dogs are floating in the pool atop their blow up rafts.  To the south, you’ll spy the puppy cabanas where they eat capers and drink Evian.  On the north side of the property is the canine nail salon.  Chihuahuas with nail extensions are actually cute.

She gets her money from insurance. Her last three husbands mysteriously disappeared.  She got married again last fall.  I don’t know his name.  Her husbands’ names aren’t worth learning until they have been around longer than the NASCAR season.  So, until Jeff Bodine crosses the finish line in Atlanta, her spouse remains persona non grata.

My niece, Nadine, has a great job.  She was a struggling psychiatrist but decided to close her office and move the practice to the golf course.  She drives the beer cart and offers swing tips and marital advice.  Business couldn’t be better.

My little sister, Sally, is wealthy due to her husband’s invention.  He created the CoffinCam.  You’ve probably heard about it.  It’s the pay per view service funeral homes offer to family members that cannot attend their loved one’s funerals.  The real money has been in the funerals for jerks.  It turn out that many people want to watch  the funeral to make sure the A Hole is actually gone.  The family has prepaid for my services.

I don’t know why these people don’t want me around.  It must be because I’m the poor relative.  Or maybe it’s because, at every family gathering, I bring livestock.