Mike "The Middle Child"

The Legend Continues

2011-03-08T06:28:00.000-08:00

It has recently been brought to my attention that I am going to be a father again. Seeing the ultrasound today really made me start to think. As I think about adding another member to the family, and the fact that my daughter will be turning 2 next month, I am reminded of why I decided to become a parent in the first place. Spite.

I know what you're all thinking and you can just climb down off that magnificent stallion of yours. The idea of wanting to be a parent is a selfish act to begin with, isn't it? You are basically claiming that the world would be better if there were a little bit more of you in it. That, somehow, the world as it is is incomplete with its current helping. My reason for wanting to be a parent is far more noble than this. The need runs much deeper than the natural animal instinct to spread my seed. It drives the actions of all middle children I know. It is the reason we wake up in the morning, and it is the reason we pretend to forget our siblings' birthdays. The reason is sweet, simple, magnificent, spite. Spite and spite alone drives me to do such a thing. When one understands the equation that brings about a middle child, one understands the reason for my actions.

In order for there to be a middle child (a child of whom can receive my love and affection), there must be a first and a last who receive my wrath. The coming of this second child marks the second step in my masterpiece. A delicate tapestry I have been assembling since the first time my mother unsuccessfully put me up for adoption. My son is on the way, and he will be the child of my affection. He will receive love and care the likes of which this world has never seen. He shall be showered with praise, excused of chores, and encouraged to learn how to use the potty at his own pace. There is no going too fast, and no going too slow. He will not be forced into any sort of organized recreation. His first word will be "yes" as he shall hear no other. He will be fed red meat until his heart wants to explode with joy! I will grow him as a prized fattened calf. I will take clothes given to our other children as birthday gifts, tear them apart, and knit them together as a coat of many colors for my son. And through my line, all middle children who know no victory, only defeat, no support, only anguish, and have never received the big piece of cake a day in their lives, will receive vindication.

The day of reckoning is coming!

"He who hits and runs away, lives to hit another day."

2011-02-28T20:02:00.000-08:00

Like most siblings, my brother and I spent a lot of time fighting growing up. For the most part we got along. But a fight was known to happen here and there. When we did fight it was usually pretty simple. I was strategic about it. I'll admit my strategy was less than admirable, but you have to do what you have to do to survive. There is one secret I will pass on to all you kids out there with older brothers. Punch him when he least expects it. I mean when he really isn't expecting it. Don't bother to make a move during a fight, it's a waste of time. Wait until he steps out of the bathroom, or is taking his dish to the sink. It takes a big man to go for the sucker punch and not feel bad about it afterwards. Punch, then dash for the closest parent. The retreat is key, because when I entered the room my mom was in, I would kick on the tears. My mom's motherly instincts would kick in before she realized who was crying, and all she would see was me running scared, and an angry brother chasing me. "Don't hit your brother so hard," she would say.

My second strategy was run directly in to him, push him as hard as I could back into the wall, and then just punch as fast as I could into his gut. This worked surprisingly well, but only because I would do it out of nowhere. Do not try that one in a real fight.

And last, should you find yourself in a real fight, there are three tactics you can utilize to get through. I cannot take credit for these, they were taught to me by my best friend growing up. He had 5 older sisters and the estrogen flowed like fine wine in that house. He was a better retreater than I ever was.

1. Armadillo Defense: Curl up into a tight little ball on the ground. A fetal position, but on your knees. The key to success here is that you don't move. Hold this position for at least an hour after your opponent leaves the room, lest they be hiding around the corner. Beware, once they learn how to implement a kidney punch, it's pretty much over.

2. No Bones: Just make as if you have no bones. Fall limp to the ground as if you were a dead body. After all, no one wants to hit a dead body. That's gross.

3. Thumb Butt: This is the only offensive move you should use, and even then, its only if you have no choice. Wait until your opponent is getting up from trying to break you from your armadillo defence. When they are getting up off the floor, stiffen your thumb and strike. Only rule here is if you are going to implement this move, you have to yell "thumb butt!" when you do it. Just remember, once you yell "thumb butt," your committed. So act swiftly, and with great prejudice.

Good night, and good luck.

Defense from the enemy

2011-02-28T09:25:00.001-08:00

My brother and I had a strong sense of pride of ownership growing up. We took our house and property very seriously. This manifested itself in many ways, the most notable of which was the protection of our grapefruit tree. The large grapefruit tree in our backyard was the best thing imaginable. We could climb up to the top and see for miles. This was our fortress. We could navigate that tree with our eyes closed.

One summer afternoon we found ourselves in the back yard and decided to partake of one of our favorite activities, "alley shopping." This consisted of Tony and I wandering down the alley behind our house looking for other people's discarded treasure. This day, we hit the motherload. We found about 350 sq ft of used carpet in convenient rolls. It occured to us what our domain had been missing. It was that cozy living room feeling you can only get from being able to dig your toes in carpet. We loaded the rolls in the back gate one by one, rolling them out underneath our tree. It was a thing of beauty. All we needed now was a recliner, a lamp, and a coffee table.

We began to learn an important lesson. The more stuff you have, the more protective over it you become. And with the addition of carpet to our already beautiful grapefruit tree, it became more and more obvious to us that we needed a line of defense. A way to watch after our property when we weren't there. What about when we were at school? Some neighbor kids could easily hop the wall and sit under our tree! Disgusting. The thought of some other neighborhood jerks enjoying our enviroment made us sick. The next logical step? Booby traps. I have outlined our efforts below for your reference in the protection of your wares.

Automatic:

1.) The Abyss: Dig a hole. A pretty good sized hole. Use the pocket knife your parents got your brother for christmas and sharpen some sticks at the bottom of the hole, cover with a thin layer of plastic and construction paper. Cover plastic and construction paper with leaves. Wait.

2.) The Brain Blaster: Find an arrow from the toy bow and arrow set that your parents bought your over-priviliged brother for Christmas. Balance it precariously atop the tree. Tie a string to it that extends down to the ground, easily bumped by a passerby. Test this one a few times to make sure it works. If done correctly, the arrow should fall straght down with enough velocity to dig in to the ground about six - eight inches. (It should be noted that dogs can set off this trap easily. Gizmo was a near miss. This did, however, confirm the effectiveness of the trap).

Manual Controlled. To be activated manually from a tactical position:

3.) Frondinator: For those of you who don't know, years back some genius decided to start planting palm trees in Arizona. Known to locals only as "The Devil Tree," they lack purpose all-together except for one thing. They are useful for home defense purposes. The palm frond of the palm tree is lined with tiny little thorns. Secure frond to a rope, thorn side out. Tie back to the tree, release as enemy approaches.

4.) Grapefruit Dump: This is pretty simple. Its just a box of old soggy/moldy grapefruit kept up in the tree. Should the enemy approach, dump box accordingly.

There you have it! All you need to know about home defense.

Me, Gizmo, and the Hibiscus

2011-02-28T08:45:00.001-08:00

Growing up in Arizona has its advantages. No natural disasters, swimming 7 months out of the year, and I never had to shovel snow. It is truly great for those reasons. However, in the house I grew up in proximity to, I learned that the Arizona climate is more troubling than you might think. I say in proximity to because around the time I turned 8, my mother all of a sudden became very excited about me "camping" in the back yard. At first it was fun! Being outside, experiencing nature, learning to survive with nothing but my wit, a pack of Ramen Noodles, and a cup of luke warm water. And the pup up tent I had was not much but it got the job done. My dog Gizmo (a nearly blind lhasa opso with dread locked hair) and I would huddle up in the tent and reminisce of better days. This was all well and good until I visited my old bedroom to find that my bed no longer had sheets on it. "That's weird," I thought to myself but didn't think much of it. Then the next week my actual bed was gone. I just continued sleeping in my tent as my mom insisted I was having a great time. Then a short three days later I returned to my room to get a long overdue change of clothes only to find that the locks had been changed on my bedroom door. "What gives, Mom?"
"We had to make room."
"For what? That's my bedroom!"
"Your father has decided he wants to get in to shape. He's going to take up running."
"Round is a shape!" I insisted to no avail. "And what does that have to do with my room?"
"We're getting him a treadmill."
The only thing dumber than running on the street with no destination was doing it on a machine that keeps you stationary. "I thought you were enjoying camping? Aren't you having a good time?"
"I was, but I am ready to sleep in my bed again. I think I need to see a chiropractor mom, my L5 is killing me!"
"Your vertebrae are fine, Mike. They're not even completely fused yet; you need to give it time."
I reluctantly resigned myself to the fact that the back yard was to be my new home. I headed outside only to find my loyal hound tearing my tent to pieces. I forgot I had left the last corn ration that my mother had given my under my pillow. "Amature!" I thought to myself. So I decided to form a shanty out of the old tent pieces and the leaves of a fig tree that I took from my neighbor's house. The nights started getting longer as winter began to rear its ugly head. Now winter in AZ ain't all that bad but you don't want to be outside either. Gizmo and I found out real fast the secret to staying warm in the winter was body heat. We came to really depend on each other. I coveted his long winter coat and I assume he coveted my opposable thumbs.
I truly learned to appreciate all that I once had thanks to my mom having me sleep outside. I hold no hostility toward her now. And through all of it, she continued to take care of me. She explained that my restless bowels were caused by making my oleander tea, and that I could close an open wound using the sap from the rubber tree. She would come out on the nights when the weather man would predict a hard freeze and cover up me and the hibiscus I slept next to with Tony's old bed sheets. I felt so warm on those nights. So loved. I only hope that my kids will feel the same kind of affection.

Caution: Show Chickens

2011-02-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

Hanging out in Hollywood past two days had made me realize three things.

First, no one is here without a mission. It doesn't seem that anyone was actually born here. In fact I don't think they have a hospital. Just a series of Urgent cares. Second, everyone here hates everyone else here. Now this is an attitude I can get on board with. Its like prison in that regard. There are just more shankings on Sunset. Hollywood is a dirty town and everyone I ease drop on is talking crap about someone else. Being surrounded by people who are aspiring writers, actors, models and Subway sandwich artists can be very tiring... The third, and quite possibly the most important thing that I learned about LA, is that it is serious about its chickens. Extremely serious. In fact I have seen more then one "chicken cafe" since I have arrived. I'm not completely sure what that is, nor did I have the stomach to check, but just the idea of it really creeped me out. And I couldn't care less about animal rights! The above truck was in front of me the way to Hollywood. What is the appropriet response here? A semi has a sign that says "wide turns" and is accompanied by a diagram in case the verbal warning is to confusing. But "Caution, Show Chickens" is self explanitory? I feel like this sign is leaving out some very important details. I don't know the first thing about what it means to be cautious around show chickens. Its seems a little presumptuous to assume that those of us that don't currently interact with show chickens on a regular basis would even know where to begin. In order that no one else would ever have to feel my pain when encountering an 18 wheeler full of show chickens, I decided to do a bit of research. The following bullet points are curtosy of ehow.com on the proper care of show chickens.

1 Choose which birds to show according to class - sex, age and number of birds per entry.

Simple enough

2 Pick hens that have been laying regularly over the past few months if you want to enter a layer.

Definitely want to enter a layer. Check.

3 Check that layers have a soft, pliable abdomen, breastbone and pubic bone at least three fingers' width apart from each other, and a pubic bone two to three fingers wide.

Is it weird that according to this scale I could enter myself as a show chicken?

4 Choose birds with lots of meat if you want to enter a meat bird; look at the length and width of the bird's breast and size of leg.

I find this step particularly difficult to do without killing the bird.

5 Vaccinate birds for fowl pox, and check with fair about the blood test for pullerum as you begin preparing for the show.

Seriously? "Foul" Pox? Why is it foul pox for a chicken and chicken pox for a human? Shouldn't it just be pox? This is making me tired...

6 Check birds for lice and mites. This should be done on a regular basis as you are raising the birds. Dust when lice or mites are present.

Lice. Now you're speaking my language.

7 Look at the feet for rough spots, and apply baby oil or petroleum jelly to improve skin.

I would rather check the three finger width on the chickens colon again.

8 Wash birds three days before the show with warm water and mild shampoo so that they can be dry and so that oils will be back in their feathers by show time.

(Insider tip: Panteen Pro V and some bottled chicken oil can be a real life saver)

9 Dry birds with a hair dryer to prevent them from getting too cold and possibly getting ill before the show.

I prefer to use the broiler.

10 Transport chickens to fair in a clean cage.
Season to taste.

There you have it folks! All you need to know the next time you pass an 18 wheeler on the highway to California.

No! I'm NOT John Mayer so quit asking!

2011-02-17T10:55:00.000-08:00

Being a celebrity look-a-like is not as fun as it sounds. Sure, you get the occasional free drink at the pub or a free hotdog from your local streetside vendor, but ultimately, I feel that it detracts from what I bring to the table as a person. I have feelings and thoughts of my own. But when you are the spitting image of a rock legend, all that fades to black.

I found myself at a local pizza eatery a few days back and had such an experience. I ordered the usual pepperoni, pineapple, bacon and onion special, and made my way from the counter to my usual seat in the corner. It was a typical pizza joint with tables that are too tiny and the place claims to be authentic "Chicago" style pizza, whatever that means. Personally, I like my pizza to be like me; greasy and Phoenician. None the less, I slid into my chair in the corner and as usual, I drew pictures with my finger in the table top pizza grease and began to silently judge the orders of my restaurant-going comrades. Mr "spinach, olive, zucchini and basil" was just asking for it. He really couldn't get enough of himself. My buddy, Brian from high school, who works behind the counter, turned to "check on an order" and shot me an exaggerated eye roll. And that's when it happened.

Zucchini's equally pretentious girlfriend saw me. I noticed her double-take and tried to make myself scarce.

"Not again..." I thought to myself. I wondered how quickly I could change my order to "to go" but it was too late. She tapped Zuchini on the shoulder and wispered in his ear while looking in my direction.

"wisper wisper wisper... John Mayer... wisper wisper wisper."

I tried to slouch lower in my already too tiny pizzaria chair and pulled my hat down. But I think my mesterious look only made them all the more convinced. Brian loved when things like this happened and took some time out of his day to confirm their suspicions.

"Yeah he eats in here all the time!"

She left the line to come over. I decided this was it. I am tired of playing second fiddle to John, its time for me to take mine. Some time in the sun was well deserved. So I played along.

"Excuse me," she said, her boyfriend on her heels. "Is that really you?" she asked wide-eyed.

"Of course it is," I replied. "It's me!"

"Ohh wow! We are such huge fans!" her boyfriend chimed in. "Your body is a wonderlaaaaand." He sang with a slight thrust in his hip.

"Yes. Its true. My body is a wonderland." I replied with a deep-seated resentment for the man who bears my face. "Like a resurrected Walt Disney but with more raw sexual magnatism."

"We have all of your albums! Even that one that came out after that other one that kinda sucked..."
"I have that one too."

They looked at each other slightly puzzled, but continued. "What kinda pizza do you eat? They should give you your own item on the menu and call it the Mayer special!"

"I would agree with that. I pushed for them to name a pizza after me but the guy at the counter is a Sevendust fan."

"Ohh man, I can't believe we ran into you here! Are you from Phoenix originally?"

"Yeah I live here now actually. I stay with my parents right up the street."

"You live with your parents? Aren't you like, rich?"

"I don't do too bad. I've got a car now which is pretty sweet. And a blog! I even opened up a shop out of my house where I sew old patches to the tops of old tennis shoes. I sell them on ebay."

"What kind of a car do you drive?"

"1989 Mazda 323 hatchback. It can do 0-60."

"In what?"

"Eventually."

"Alright, well when do you have time to write music? Don't you have a tour coming up?"

"I'm thinking about quitting the music biz. It's become so commercialized. It used to be about the rock. Now all it seems anyone cares about is pushing albums on 15 year old girls at the local Target. I'm more than just a pretty face, you know? But they make me feel so dirty and used, like a toy banana in a monkey prison."

"Wow," she said, "I had no idea."

"Well now you do. Sometimes I wish I could just eat a piece of Phoenix style pizza in peace, like everyone else. I'm just like everyone else, Guys. I ain't no different. I'm just waiting on the world to change..."

They called her number at the counter and she looked back over her shoulder, and then to her boyfriend who was clearly less than impressed with our encounter. "Well, it was good to see you." They gave me a nod and went back to the line looking very defeated.

Mission accomplished, I thought to myself as I finished my last bite. I stood up from my corner chair, wiping my greasy hands off on my denims. I headed for the door thinking of my good deed, giving that nice couple a chance to meet their hero. The bells on the door chimed as I opened it. I heard my buddy Brian yelled from behind the counter,

"Take 'er easy, Mikey."

"You too, brother."

Where it all began

2010-05-07T09:45:00.001-07:00

I have had a lot of people ask me how I got started blogging this way, and more importantly, why I am the way that I am. I mean, could we blame my mom? Well yes or course. Could we blame my dad? Without a doubt! But I think the answer is, it's a compilation of many events of my life that I am hoping to summarize within this blog. But the most important thing, is to go back to the start and check out my humble beginning.

2010-05-06T13:54:00.000-07:00

Its been too long my friends, and, after many complaints both for and against my blogging, I've decided that to deprive you of my innermost thoughts we be no less wrong then it would be for this man to give up wearing his tiny little man shorts on his motorcycle. Some things in life are just meant to be, and not worth living without. Like a cool breeze through the leg hair of your

inner thigh while firing down Pecos on your crotch rocket.

Besides, so much has happened since I last posted! New crazy immigration laws, Looks like they are loosing photo radar now, this guy got some new shorts, and his wife lost all respect she once had for him! So much to talk about!

So much has happened in my life as well! I was part of some corporate downsizing at one of America's least favorite banks, my first child was born, and I finally remembered where to get the second flute in the 3rd Mario. Needless to say, my life has changed dramatically! The good news is since getting laid off, I have yet to get robbed, one of the many perils of working for a bank.

I have since started my own business which is exciting! I work by myself most of the day in my little office, poking away on the computer while watching old episodes of 24 on Netflix. I like to watch random episodes from different seasons and choose my own adventure.

It should be said however, that the life of a small business owner is not all computer games and watching Jack Bauer be everything I am not. No sir, its not all its cracked up to be. Its a lot of hard work, and no one pays you if you sit in your office updating your blog all day. I miss being on someones payroll I can't lie, but there is a certain peace about knowing you can't get laid off.

Excited to be back behind the keyboard,

Mike "The Middle Child"

The King and I

2009-05-29T13:52:00.000-07:00

I have learned that some people don't believe my tales of woe. To suggest that I exaggerate my stories and take some sort of artistic license is ridiculous. So, to prove my point, I have indisputable photographic evidence of my childhood. It started young.

This is the First time of many that my mother tried to discard me at sea.

To this day I am convinced that the only reason Tony got these horrible glasses is because he knew that I would think it was cool. Diabolical!

Even at Christmas, all I wanted was a ducky. Bud I didn't get it... NO! Tony did. All I could do was dream. Notice the distain in my eye, the sad hopelessness in my face. Then look at Tony, happy, care free... has shoes. He had it all!

The thing I love about this picture is it really sums up my life up to this point. Yes, that is me. The sad little hobo in the bottom right. notice the white shirt, patches in the jeans, dirty socks, and what appears to be an extension cord as a belt. When you consider that I am far to young in this photo to pick my own costume, you have to wonder, who would put me in to a hobo costume? What kind of a sick individual would dress up one child as a drifter, and the other as the only known survivor of the planet Krypton.

All i know is Superman wasn't a Mexican, and he didn't wear gym shorts.

Mikesican of Mexizona

2009-05-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

I am tired of all this Mexican racism going on in our fair state. When did it become okay to bad mouth my brethren!? Okay, I know what you are thinking... I look white. Which is why a lot of people think it is okay to bad mouth my people when I'm around. Unfortunately, my anglo mother cursed me with this blasted white skin, no one asked me about it! You can take a look at my brother above, hes my proof. Now, as much as I curse my skin, being half white half Mexican really opens up the amount of jokes I can tell, which is fantastic.

What is all this hatred of my people though? People actually seem to be offended by Mexican pride! Now, I understand, my ancestors didn't come to this country because they thought it would be fun to leave the lights and pizazz of Mexico to come slum it in America. They came here because America is great! That being said, who is it hurting that I am proud of where I came from? You know what the only difference is between Mexicans and Americans? When a Mexican is having trouble providing for his family, he risks his life to sneak in to another country and send money home. Little respect? Or maybe they should adopt the American method of running out on your family, making a cardboard sign that says "down on my luck, need handout" and standing on the side of the freeway waiting for a freebie! And yet people complain about my people standing on the side of the road looking for WORK. But if there is one thing America is great at is band wagon racism. Slavery, Japanese after WW2, Muslims after 9/11, and now Mexicans. Who is going to be next? My best friend Sam is a Bask. I fear for his future... sigh...

Viva Mexico!

So its official. From now on, I would like to be referred to as Mikesican the Middle Child.

Why I support the Swine Flu...

2009-04-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

Maybe if wasn't called Swine Flu! Anyone think of that? What if it was called something cute like "the itchy sneezies" or "baconitus." At any rate, I decided to try to put a happy face on the swine flu so when it does come to Arizona, people wont be so worried about it. Knowing that my own artistic talents leave something to be desired, I have decided to turn to my brother.
But, with any good logo, comes the responsibility of an even better slogan. Something like, "Swine Flu, Not just for Mexico!" or "Swine Flu, when pigs cry..."

Any Ideas?!

Stay tuned for sweet Swine Flu Logos.

Parenting, and how to do it well...

2009-04-09T11:44:00.000-07:00

Who decided it was a good idea to have fathers in the actual delivery room? I didn't vote for that! I mean come on now! Never have I appreciated so much an era when the men would smoke cigars in the waiting room over a glass of Johnny Walker, (red, I'm not made of money you know...) and wait for your wife to pretty herself up for you. Join the family after the baby is no longer covered in that white film of yogurty weirdness. My account of that day is as follows...

We arrived to the hospital at about 7am. I brought everything my father told me I would need. A pair of new shoelaces, a hollowed out avocado, and about 60ft of fishing line.

We were introduced to our doctor who was an older man who smelt of cheap champagne and women's perfume. His hands were cold to the touch... I felt bad for my baby's head. He led us to our first room. It was small, cramped, and I sensed it had seen its fair share of placenta. An eerie feeling to say the least.

"Where to the men wait?" I asked the nurse. She stared blankly at me for a few moments. " You know, cigar smoking, whiskey drinking... man room."

"Sir, there is no smoking the the hospital."

I chuckled to myself as I left to find the man room... "I can tell we will get along! no man room... ha! Let me know when its over!"

My wife said something as the door shut behind me. I think. I met my brother in the "waiting room." It would have to do for now. About an hour later a nurse came suddenly in to the room Kramer style and made us both jump.

"Mr. MiddleChild?"

"yes that's right"

"Your wife is starting to push!"

"Gross" I thought to myself... This cant be good. "I don't want the play by play, just a highlights sum up when its over!"

"I don't know, she seems pretty mad that your not in there!"

"Of course shes mad, I hear the whole ordeal is quite painful. Poor girl... and to have to do it all on her own. I told her to call a friend but she wouldn't listen."

Eventually, I decided to work my way back to the delivery room. The ground shook with the fury of a thousand Russian winters. I opened the door to my destiny slowly, trying to prepare myself for babestrosity (monstrosity + baby) I was about to see. My wife was obviously not enjoying herself or the miracle of afterbirth. I tried to explain to my wife that the crying isn't going to help anything and no one feels bad for her. Unfortunately my pep talk didn't help and I started to miss the uncomfortable chair in the waiting room.

Eventually, it was over. All my fears and concerns quickly dissipated when I looked in to the eyes of my little girl. I realized my life would never be the same.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I started to parent. And I have done such an amazing job, I have put together the following list as I have a number of friends who are about to have kids. This will help, trust me.

1. Set the child on the floor, and unwrap it from whatever blanket the nurses put it in. Make sure to expose the neck to establish your role as the dominant male figure. This is key, you need to instill fear. the kind of fear that says, "Most humans don't eat their young, but don't give me a reason."

2. Strategically set a bottle of formula and the aforementioned blanket on the other side of the room adjacent to the baby. Do not be an enabler. If they want to eat, they can do it themselves. If a cow can figure it out so fast, why not humans? You give them a freebie now they will be on you for the rest of your life.

3. Don't take no back talk.

4. Your wife's natural reaction will be to "baby" the baby. Do not allow this. Your right as a parent is to mess up your kid in your own special way. But don't take this responsibility lightly.

I hope this helps. My parents didn't have a lot of direction in their parenting (obviously), and look what happened to me.

Salutations!

2009-02-10T11:47:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone,
I feel i should apologize for the long delay in between updates. I assure you that the only reason I haven't posted is only because I don't like any of you very much.
Excuse me if I seem a little bit bitter, I have been recently betrayed. Betrayed in the harshest of ways. A bank that I once risked my life for... (see 12/18/08 post) decided to lay me off. Although I cannot say that it didn't hurt my pride, I can say that the supply of paper clips I took should last me at least 8-10 years, given my current paperclip usage.

What does life hold for me now? I don't make as much money as you would think off of these hilarious musings.

My top career options are as follows.

1. Marty McFly impersonator

2. Dance Critic

3. Experimentally mixed fruits juice tester (starting with banana plumb)

4. Foot model

5. Live Manikin

6. Word Inventor

Any other Ideas? Help!

Another Mike "The Middle Child" quote to live by...

2009-01-22T12:57:00.000-08:00

"Where does life get all them lemons? And if they are so great, why is he always giving them away?"
- Mike "The Middle Child"

I died just a little inside...

2009-01-13T11:01:00.000-08:00

First I want to apologize to Adora, who was kind enough to respond to my 01/02/08 post, regarding Peeves. I want to apologize because I must not have been very clear. I am a fan of "sticker stacking" as it were... I myself have been known to sticker stack on occasion, and it is not a sign of stupidity, simply a sign of laziness, which I fully support. Just to clarify, I did found a perfect example of the type of licence plate that does drive me nuts.

(see pictured picture)

I don't even know where to start. It pains me to think that this person qualifies for a drivers licence. There are even sticky marks where the stickers of old have since faded away! Do they make historic plates to be placed on really old licence plates? Who thinks its a good idea to actually cover up the numbers of your licence plate with the little stickers other then bank robbers hooligans? I will tell you... Someone who I just cannot be friends with, that's who. I am sorry shopper of Tempe Toyota. Its just not going to work out between us. This brief love affair we have shared as my wife snapped photos of your licence plate while driving down the road has come to an end.

My Unborn Fetal Child

2009-01-06T14:26:00.000-08:00

Today I received pictures of what is known as in some circles as a "fetus" or "substantial tax credit".
She will be my firstborn!

In spite of my parents cautioning me not to do so, and against my better judgement, I decided to reproduce.

Now I know what you are thinking... why would someone like myself, who has had such a terribly painful heartbreaking upbringing decide to bring a child in to the world?

Excellent question! And there are actually a lot of reasons...

For one, unless I have one kid, I will never have three kids. And I have to have three kids. If I don't have three kids, I will never have a middle child. If I didn't have a middle child, I will never have anyone to shower with praise. Nor will I have an oldest and youngest in which to, (in the words of Homer Simpson) mock and boo until my throat is soar.

Two, I hate yard work. Hate it! My dad used to make me trim the bougainvillea in the front yard with my bare hands. This he said would create within me a good sense of "stick-to-it-tive-ness." Anyway, ever since then I have despised yard work. Thus children.

Reason Three for having children is probably the most important. And financially smart.

I have three nephews, (soon to be five). And the oldest, back when he was only two was sitting with me on the couch while I played 360. As I bested my foes in a rousing game of Battlefield II the most amazing thing happened. He got up from the couch, went to the kitchen, and next thing I know he was standing in front of me with a beer.

"For me?" I asked, as a single tear fell from my eye.

He had noticed that my beer was low, gone to the fridge without even being asked, and took it upon himself to get me a new one. Wow, I thought to myself... If it can get beers, what else can it do? And that is when I decided to open a sweat shop in my basement.

(The middle nephew, look in his eyes, he is already as jaded as I am... poor kid. He will make an excellent addition to the factory.)

Peeves, Top Ten

2009-01-02T10:19:00.000-08:00

My definition of a pet peeve is this

"something that other people do, that doesn't affect me in the least, yet I am extremely vexed by it. "(I know I am awesome for using the word Vex)

In no particular order...

1.) People do not remove or simply cover up old registration stickers on their licence plate.

This irritates me to no end. I see this and I immediately know that I could never be friends with this person. The idea that anyone, including an officer of the law cares to see that you have had your car regularly registered with the DMV since OCT79 with the exception of a small lapse in coverage in 98 is beyond me. This has gotten much better with the introduction of black and white stickers here in Arizona. Prior to this it was as if someone took a Mexican fiesta and mashed it on to the back of their licence plate! Come On!

2.) People who say Irregardless

This is not a word people, and I don't know how to stress that enough! The word is Regardless! For instance...

"Regardless of weather or not you are a nice person, I will not be your friend if you use this word."

I am not claiming to have the best grammar in the world, and in fact if my sister-in-law read this blog she could cut it to shreds... that being said, it just sounds dumb.

3.) Dudes in Skinny Jeans

Look, I get it, I look great in tiny little jeans too, and yes it is tempting. But please resist the urge. Unless you drive a tractor, ride a horse, or are a cop from Hawaii 50, just don't do it. To many Jr High emo kids decide to accentuate their bird like physique with jeans made for a girl. My body resembles that of a finally carved Greek statue, and not even I try to pull it off! Ugh...

4.) People who are chronically angry

Irregardless of whether you place multiple registration stickers on your car, use words that are not real, wear tiny little jeans that are in fact paper mache molded to fit the contour of your little tiny legs that has been painted blue to resemble jeans, or just one of those people who are irritated by all those things, lifes to short to spend it angry!

I want to see some Peeves in the comments section people!

Merry Christmas Micky

2008-12-31T12:38:00.000-08:00

My favorite time of the year you ask? The end of it! I sat down to address my readers and reflect on the year that has passed. As I did I remembered that the only good year is one that is ending.

The good news is, Christmas is over! Although I love the meaning it holds and the purpose it celebrates, the commercial crap that has infested an otherwise beautiful holiday has made it less then my favorite time of the year. However, I often buy in to it...

This year, I visited my parents Christmas morning as I have in years past, but this year I had a most disturbing surprise. There was not a single present under the tree for Mike! Not One! I rummaged under the tree, moving from present to present and yet, nothing. There was one from my brother for me, made out to "him." (A name he had given me the year he decided to stop using my name in conversation.) But that was it. Nothing else.

I began to scan the past year in my mind, trying to figure out what I could have done to cause such a thing. What could a child do to cause their parents enough grief, to not get them a single gift on Christmas morning. So I sprung to my feet, (not unlike a jungle cat,) and ran to where my father sat on the couch sipping his Paps, to find out what was going on.

"what gives Biological Father?!" (This was a name my father assigned to himself long ago. He wanted anyone in ear shot to know it was the only reason he was associated with me...)

"What is it Chris?"

"Mike!"

"Whatever"

"I don't have any presents under the tree... what happened?"

"Well for starters, you were born. And the rest pretty much writes itself..."

I realized I wasn't going to get anything out of him, and remembered the last present he had given me. It was a headstone, you could still make out the previous name, mine was etched in above it.
"For the inevitable!" he would yell. "Always be prepared!"

So I sat quietly under the tree one last time and started sifting through the gifts... "To: Tony"... "To: Roni"... "To: Mailman"... and "To: Micky."

"Micky?" I thought to myself. I began to tear open his presents in a blind rage! "Whose Micky!?" I yelled across the house. Then my heart sunk when I opened the first box. My parents have been getting me a pack of Marlboro Reds every year since my 5th birthday. "Hasten the inevitable!" my dad would always say. But this year, they gave it to Micky. I quickly opened the next box. It was a small section of dryer lint. It was still warm to the touch and had a note attached.

"Please enjoy the beginning of your new sweater." From- Cindy, Biological Father, Tony, and Roni.

That is when it hit me. I AM MICKY! It wasn't a terrible Christmas after all, my mom had just spelled my name wrong, on every single one of my presents.

I know what you are thinking,
"Isn't that insulting Mike? They spelled your name wrong, and not just once, but every single present!"

But you know what, when you are a middle child, and some of you out there can relate. You just take it where you can get it. And if that means your parents forget your name, no biggy. I sat tall that day, touched the small patch of lint to my cheek and felt the warmth it held... Why be sad? After all, I just got myself a new sweater.

He is also a Kung Fu Master...

2008-12-20T08:57:00.000-08:00

Not many people know that, not only is Tony a comic, but a self titled KungFu master. Pictured here he shows off some of his skills at recent family event.

Some might be confused and think that that is some sort of KungFu Kick, Eye gouging, sky flying, world rocking super move. But they would be wrong.

This is just how he walks now.

I hate life.

Stick um up!

2008-12-18T10:23:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know my know me know I have two loves in my life. Firearms, and anything written and preformed by the 2nd Jonas brother.

Hair like that doesn't happen by accident... *sigh*

I recently became the victim of a potentially violent crime.
By violent I of course mean passive, and by victim I mean clueless innocent bystander.

I sat in my office minding my own business, googling my name and searching for Bonanza memorabilia on Ebay when I decided I should take a much needed brake. My office is blessed with large windows that give me an excellent view of the entirety of the banking center in which I work, however they are placed behind me as I sit at my desk.
I stand up to head out of the office when I notice something strange. The bank is completely empty, with the exception of about 10 police officers. And outside, the entire center had been blocked of with police tape!
Assuming that the disturbance is a result of the company pens I helped myself to a few weeks earlier, I immediately proceed to keaster a pack a cigarettes, as I hear they are good as gold on the inside. As I walk slowly (and awkwardly) from my office with my hands interlocked behind my head demanding my one phone call, I notice that there are no guns drawn.
It turns out, that much like my upbringing, they simply forgot I was around. While I was in my office one of the tellers had been robbed. After a quick trip to the restroom, I lit one up with one of the detectives outside...
The good news was two fold, no one was hurt, and they had caught the culprit. He had tried unsuccessfully to escape with $1500. It was however not all a loss for the gentlemen who tried to help himself to our funds.
He obviously needed the money, so the officers graciously decided to put him up for free at Florence prison for at least the next 6 years, not to mention 3 meals a day, and cable! Talk about a deal! I would have killed for that growing up.
The day I turned 12 my parents started charging me rent, and that didn't include cable. Often my dad would have me act as his antenna by standing precariously on top of the television, in hopes of catching the fight. If that didn't work, he would have my brother and I reenact the fight from the night before based on highlights in the following day's newspaper. Unfortunately I always played the white guy.
My dad always insisted that in order for it to be a true reenactment the knockout had to be real. I eventually that if I held my breath as my brother pummeled my head, I would pass out faster.

I am glad the ordeal is over and that everyone is okay. Robberies such as this are not as glamorous as everyone thinks they are. So always be careful. I don't want you do end up hardened like me. I am a bank robbery survivor.

Putting the F in ridiculous

2008-12-12T08:49:00.000-08:00

F-Minus - Putting the F in rediculous!

To all my readers, and more importantly, to the readers of F-minus:

Exhibit A: Comic "Mike, the Middle Child" - Comic #2386, published 1977

Exhibit B: Comic: F-Minus - Published some time after 1977

Notice anything? yeah so did I! Exhibit B's art makes me want to vomit.

My comic, "Mike, the middle Child" show above as "Exhibit A" was published some 30 years ago, before Carrillo was even a glimmer in some, drunken frat boy's eye. I understand that when you are a comic, trying to come up with something funny to draw on a daily basis must be difficult. But plagiarism? Makes me sick...

I'm calling you out Carrillo.

Our son Tony, Our Daughter Roni... and Tony's friend Mike

2008-12-12T08:25:00.001-08:00

Unfortunately my family is celebrating Christmas again this year. For some, Christmas brings up wonderful memories of raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, and warm woolen mittens. I can't help but think of Christmas two years ago. This year I am asking for a rash, because the way I see it, it will be a little less irritating, but I probably wont get it anyway.
I arrive at my Grandma's house on Christmas eve, as I have so many years growing up, and as usual I am greeted by my family with "i'm sorry, have we met before?"
So my mother goes through the tedious process of introducing me to all my aunts and uncles.
"This is our Son Tony, he's an artist! Our daughter Roni, she will soon be an ASU graduate! And this is Mike, Tony's Friend."
I can't say it doesn't hurt but in some ways I have learned to appreciate the anonymity.
We sat around as we initiated the family's giving of presents, as we do every year.
My mother decided to kick things off by giving everyone in the family a warm woolen pair of pajama pants... As a cool Christmas morning in Arizona often get down to the low 70's. I was excited and began to remove my pants when I realized a startling fact. Tony had pants, Roni had pants, Roni's neighbor friend had pants, as did Tony's girlfriend. My mom even purchased a pair of pants for her astranged brother who stormed out of the house Christmas of '87, never to be seen again. She never let go.
No pants this year for Tony's friend Mike. As I stood there, pantless in the living room, a cool breeze tickled the hair on my legs. And I realized in that moment.

I am... Mike the Middle Child.