Fun at the ice bats

So, we took Grace to her first hockey game. She wanted popcorn and cotton candy — some of which she even shared with Cy. By the time she had had enough, her fingers were more than modestly sticky.

But she wanted some more popcorn. One bite, and the look on her face demonstrated that she realized the cross-contamination problem.

Then, she got that sly look on her face, and I knew she had thought of a silly solution: to simply dip her mouth directly into the popcorn (as I was holding it), thereby bypassing the sugary fingers.

Also, when the game first began, she said “Miss Jody says that we don’t play with sticks.”

I’ve said it before, but I can’t repeat it too often: of all the things I never expected of being a daddy, her sense of humor is the most pleasantly surprising element.

There was also some confusion at the end of the “Rudy’s Barberque Sauce Drinking Contest” when the buzzer went off, but it was quickly cleared up when we realized that none of the contestants were miked.

Half a fscking hour…

It took less than 30 minutes for some user — notice that that is luser with a silent ‘l’ — to try to spam some magazine site on here.

Guess what! Everything is going to be moderated! Everything is going to have to be moderated! You know, I was hoping that this would be so much more work, as I’m not getting nearly enough spam in my life.

Not that I’m advocating that groups of 800 to 900 anti-spammers start taking house-to-house searches of known spam gangs in which everyone fires — oops — I mean misfires — a gun, so that there is no way to know which bullet killed that specific spammer.

No, I would never advocate that. That would be wrong. It would feel fantastic, it would better the ‘net as a whole, but it would be wrong.