Mother Goose was also a bad parent. Consider:

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread,
She whipped them all soundly, and put them to bed.

Whipped them soundly? I demand that she go to rehab.

(people, the rehab quip is social commentary; mull it over)

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
If Peter Piper picked...

Stupid question, but how did Pete pick pickled peppers? Peppers are only considered to be pickled after they've been through a long process that I imagine involves boiling, vinegar, and elves. Pickled peppers do not grow on trees, bushes, shrubs, or anything, for that matter. Mother Goose is a fraud. I demand an apology.

Tomorrow: something interesting.

Some days the words just flow. This week has not been one of those days. Today is Thursday, or, as I call it, Wednesday night. I bring it up, not because it's interesting, but because my stomach hurts: it's filled with gas. You're undoubtedly asking yourself, what does that have to do with Thursday? And you very well are entitled to ask just such a question. Another question you might be asking yourself is, "what's the capital of Finland?" You really didn't intend to think about Finland today, did you? See what happens when you don't mind your own business? Here's something else to think about:

Take a four-hour nap, and you wake feeling incredibly rested (and maybe a little groggy). Get four hours of sleep when you were supposed to be sleeping through the night, and you wake feeling like you'd rather rather quit your job (or whatever) than get up. Isn't sleep interesting. And hypocritical. Yes, I've come right out and said it: sleep is a big, fat hypocrite. So take that.

No offense, but I'm not posting anything today except to say that my knees hurt. I'm either growing or aging, I'm not sure which.

Isn't it interesting that if someone says, "no offense," this person has license to say whatever he or she wants. You're not allowed to get mad, upset, or offended. Let's try one.

You: "No offense, but you smell."

Me: "None taken: thanks for the heads-up, you idiot--no offense."

You: "You're probably right, so don't worry about it, but, and no offense intended, your face looks like a goat's butt."

Me: "I actually noticed that this morning while I was shaving and thinking about how I wished you were dead--no offense."

Sarah made it home okay. I'm sure you're all relieved; the desert can be treacherous. That's a word I don't use very often. Treacherous. Treacherous. Treacherous. Some other words I don't use very often are "cute" and "craptastic". "Cute" just isn't my style, and "craptastic" is a word that I save for special occasions--and I'm pretty sure I made it up, so if you hear anyone else use it, please alert the proper authorities.

Fancy Sarah's gone for the night at her fancy teacher's conference in fancy Palm Springs, so I decided that I was going to have a blast without her: I made chicken soup, fixed a computer, and watched TV. Let the good times roll.

Curious about Bonhoeffer?

The terms "Christian pastor" and "secret agent" are not often used in the same sentence. Bonhoeffer is best known for his resistance to the Nazis in WWII: he encouraged German Christians to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others. Because of his strong convictions that the Nazis were distorting the truth of the Gospel and taking away the civil liberties of the Jews, Bonhoeffer continued to preach and teach the Truth even after the government banned him from all public speaking, teaching, and preaching. Where Christians often disagree about Bonhoeffer's theology is in the fact that he not only advocated resistance to the unjust government, he also participated in an attempt to overthrow this government: he was directly tied to a failed attempt to assassinate Hitler, and it was a complete stroke of luck that Hitler wasn't killed; the whole incident represents an interesting piece of history that isn't all that well known.

You can likely catch "Bonhoeffer" (the documentary) on PBS or at your local library...

I spent way too much time doing 'homework' today. I say 'homework' because the classes I'm taking don't really count for anything, and I don't really have to do any of the work (mostly because I'm taking them on a credit/no credit basis). With that in mind, I spent far, far too much time preparing a report on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Christian pastor/scholar/secret agent who was active in the resistance to the Nazis in World War II.

In other news, Mark Buehrle (of the Chicago White Sox) pitched a no-hitter today (no player from the opposing team got a hit; note that this is distinguished from merely hitting the ball; a hit is when...just look it up). In the last two years, he is only the second pitcher to accomplish this feat in the major leagues. These days, a no-hitter is an extremely rare feat (30 teams x 162 games per team x two seasons = 9720 opportunities for a no-no, and it's only been done twice), perhaps the only thing rarer is a perfect game (where no player from the opposing team even reaches base--via a walk, hit batsman or error) Buehrle's response? "It could have been perfect."

Sadly, I would've thought the same; though, I wouldn't have said it out loud...

Things remain fairly uneventful here. I suppose that's a good thing. Good for me, but not great for those of you who come here looking for something to read about. There were several things wrong with that last sentence, among them: 1. It was a fragment, and, actually, it was a fragment within a fragment; 2. It ended in a preposition; 3. My use of the word "here" implies that, somehow, this blog is an actual place (though, I suppose that this is debatable). Anywho, that's all from 'here': Sarah needs the computer.

I want to go ahead and go on record saying that Sarah is rushing me. I wanted to write...I was just hit in the side of the head with a slipper, and Sarah is laughing uproariously. I have chosen not to respond in any way, so as not to acknowledge her insolence. Sarah doesn't know what insolence means, so this is where...another slipper just grazed the top of my head, and I heard a roar that she does too know what it means. Just thought I'd keep you up to date.

Nothing of note happening tonight. Cooked fish for dinner. Ate fish for dinner. Watched TV. Hunted wabbits. Went for a walk. Used the Internet. That pretty much sums up Saturday. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Today, Sarah and I went to the beach to check out the big waves we'd been seeing on the news. They weren't really as big as had been advertised (supposedly, they were 20 feet yesterday; we saw a few that probably topped out at 10-15 today), but the wind was incredible: we came home with sand in every crevice.



Yes, I did say every crevice.

When my family was visiting over Christmas, they went to the beach. A normally cautious member of my family (I'll call her Moom, or, maybe, Renda) told me later how she had a lot fun walking to the end of a rock jetty (below). I was surprised she took the risk and mentioned how waves sometimes surprise people and knock them into the water.


I bring it up because, yesterday, a middle-aged man and women were swept off the jetty by a rogue wave (large and unexpected), and they have not been found. Careful Moom.

I read a news story today about how someone used a cable box at a school district's administration building to order $250 worth of pornographic movies. Aside from all the logical commentary that you might expect, I'd like to focus on one thing. When asked why there was cable television in the building, an administrator was quoted as saying that it was "there in case of emergencies."

Emergencies? Which emergencies, pray tell, necessitate the use of cable TV? Perhaps you know better, but here are a few possibilities I thought up.

1. Someone puts a gun to your head and says, turn it to the Discovery Channel or you're dead.

2. All local television channels are running commercials simultaneously.

3. The administrators are working and remember that they have a 'dime' on the Floyd Mayweather/Oscar de la Hoya fight.

4. The administrators are in a meeting and think, "You know what would make this more interesting..."

(see above story if you didn't catch the drift...)

Anything interesting to write about today?
Not really.

Didn't you do anything interesting this weekend?
Not really.

You didn't do anything?
I didn't say that.

What didn't you say?
Nothing really.

Let's try a different approach: what did you do on Friday?
I spent 6 hours trying to get stumps out of a yard with a dulled ax.

Why didn't you use a sharpened ax?
I don't see how that's any of your business.

Well, what did you do on Saturday?
I don't remember.

What do you mean you don't remember?
I don't know, I just don't.

Why don't you think about it?
I don't want to.

Okay, what did you do on Sunday?
Today is Sunday.

Okay, what did you do today?
I went to church, went to a pot-luck, and went to dinner with family.

So, you did do things this weekend.
I guess.

So, was that so hard?
Yes.

Peter is visiting this weekend. There was an accident.

The Sharks' practice was interesting. My only observation of particular note was that the players looked pretty bored and probably wished they were somewhere else. As glamorous as professional sports may be, apparently it's still a job. Who knew.

Alright, that was harsh; I know. I think I'm still recovering from the stress of yesterday's doctor visit. In the morning, I'm heading off to Anaheim to get an inside look at the San Jose Sharks practice. It should be fun: I'll get to find out whether professional coaches make players feel like worthless human beings who can't do anything right, or if that's just a thing that high-school coaches do.

I'll keep you posted.

Go away.

Today's doctor visit was less pleasant than I'd hoped. After some physical tests and a visual analysis of my MRI, the doctor said, "You need 6 weeks of physical therapy." I politely asked him to explain why I needed physical therapy; after all, I'd done it before, and things only got worse.

He got hot around the collar, raised his voice, and accusingly asked how long ago I'd had the therapy. At this point, the intern who'd been observing the visit started to shrink into the corner. I told him that it had been seven years, and he responded that new therapies have been developed since then.

Here's where I made a mistake. I asked a simple question, and, apparently, I caught him either a) lying, or b) being ignorant. I queried, "What new therapies are out there?" As he got in my face and exploded, I noticed the intern try to blend in with the wall. "I'm a surgeon! I fix things! Therapy is what I say to do! I'm a surgeon!" I kept my cool (for once) but continued to push him for an answer to my question. His position was that, in medicine, when something doesn't work (e.g., physical therapy), you try it again. When something doesn't work, try it again?!?!? Does anyone see how this is completely counter-intuitive??? He kept asking, "Do you understand it now? Do you understand it now?!?!?" At one point, a nurse opened the door and peeked her head in to see what was going on, leaving the door ajar when she left. After 10 minutes of yelling, he finally told me that 1) he didn't know what new therapies were out there, and 2) he didn't know what was wrong with my shoulder.

I was only left with one question, "May I have my co-pay back?"

Tomorrow (today, as most of you will be reading this on Monday), I have an appointment with another doctor for my shoulder. This guy is supposed to be a specialized specialist, so he should be able to give me an authoritative opinion about why I'm only a shell of my former self (athletically speaking, of course). And he'd better know what he's talking about: I had to wait two months for an appointment. I'm guessing he'll tell me it's one part injury, four parts someone pricking a doll (fashioned in my likeness) with a pin. I'll let you know how it goes.

With the occasion of April Fool's Day upon us, I wanted to wait until after midnight and write the following:

Given how far away everyone lives, I thought this blog would be the fairest medium to convey the message that Sarah is pregnant. The Butterfield name lives on.

Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for you, Sarah would not allow me to do such a thing. Something will have to occur in this prank's stead. You have been warned.