We all have guilty pleasures. I even have a few I can blog about without blipping on some federal danger radar.
"Hey Frank, we got that guy looking up groundhog lingerie again."
"Damn Freak! He makes me sick!"
So my latest pleasure? (you're all far too acquainted with my guilt. It is a star in it's own right. I think when they make my movie, my guilt will be played by Jason Statham. Sort of a no nonsense kick butt kinda guilt. Oh, they may try to cast David Schwimmer, but that so ain't happening. Yeah, and MyUnwife will be played by Rachel Weis, and it's going to have a happy ending. Oh, we were talking about my pleasure.) I've spent this weekend watching Mythbusters. It's a Discovery channel thing where they try to disprove urban myths and movie stereotypes. I watched one episode where the tried to discredit that scene in all airplane movies where somebody fires a gun and half of the fuselage tumbles earthward with the closest 20 passengers, before they even get to order their second drink.
"Stewardess, can I get the rum and coke 31A guy ordered? He had a falling out over Toledo."
The Mythbusters team proved that the worst a misfired bullet could do to the plane is cause the window to whistle a Hanna Montana song. True it's bad, but you can still block that out with the in-flight showing of Snakes on a Plane. You can't block out your torso flailing to earth while your legs remain under your tray--stowed in their upright position. I find comfort in that. I find comfort in-flight guilty pleasures.
"Waitress, will you be showing The Wiggles Movie?
Then there's that part in plane movies we all secretly love, the 15 minute show of everything sucking out the gaping hole like God's Dyson vacuum switched to high. Mythbusters verdict: Yes there is a God. Yes he has a vacuum. No he doesn't use it on planes. The time it takes for a plane to depressurize is really quick. This is what I learned. I feel confident, and I'm finding pleasure in my world again. I'm sure it's this blowing up planes thing, and now I'm on a few more watch lists.
"Frank, the sicko's back."
That's it, get a SWAT team to his house right now. Tell them to bring the paddles."
Oh Boy!
Anyway, if you're not into explosions and stuff like that, there are other things about the show to watch: There's glasses physics girl, tattooed blue collar girl, and bubbly blow stuff up girl. Sorry ladies, the male eye-candy isn't nearly as sweet; you'll just have to watch the show for the articles. That is unless you're into Santa bearded beret dude, or Timothy Busfield drops acid and follows the Dead for 2 years dude. If that's the case then your fantasies are answered. Turn down the TV audio, and click on your favorite love song, things are about to get freaky.
Speaking of freaky, my dad and mom called me this weekend. They wanted to know how I was doing. That and they were testing out their new cell phones. They've just upgraded from Dixie cups and fishing line. For a guy who works with computers, Dad's a bit of a technophobe.
But you know that. You've met my dad; he reads my blog. He's the guy with the "I Love Rob" T-shirt (on sale now at the ILoveRob Bookstore & Stalker Emporium) and matching bathrobe reading over your shoulder right now. Don't be rude, offer him some coffee. He's Dad! Sheesh...
It's kinda awkward having Dad read my stuff. I mean it's personal, and it's not always appropriate. Sure he's been there for my successes and my failures, but should he be there form my groundhogs of love? I don't mind posting fodder for Frank and Bob at the Sicko Squad, but Dad? That's different.
I used to feel the same way about MyUnwife. She was pretty good about saying, "Rob, you may have crossed a line here." Of course her line was somewhere past groundhog ball gag and nipple clamps, but I knew if she found it offensive, the odds were good that it really was. There were other things I was really nervous about her reading. Not because they hid something, but more because what they didn't hide. You may find this hard to believe, but I make stuff up. 4 out of 5 statistics appearing in Rob's blog are completely fabricated. It makes it hard to tell who I really am just by my writing. I might do that on purpose, or it might just be sloppy prose. You decide.
You mean you really do like squirrels Rob?
No dear reader, I really believe they're the chattering scourge.
Writing is probably my biggest guilty pleasure of them all. I second guess myself as frequently as you do. My inner sensor frantically scrambles around my head plugging inappropriate holes. Spots where Real Rob shines through.
I'm finding as I move further from the divorce I care less about hiding me. The longer I go, the less guilt I find, and the more pleasure I get.
So yeah, Mythbusters is my latest televised guilty pleasure. Now they're asking for people to write in with their own myths to bust. I'm thinking they should disprove the perfect marriage myth, but I think that's too easy. I've already done that myself. Maybe I'll have them disprove that I have readers other than Dad. Naw, I think I'll keep that myth as a guilty pleasure.
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