Dear Taco Bell,

Look… You know me. I know you. We’ve spent many a night together, even when one of us has been a little to heavy on the bottle. You don’t judge.

But you’ve got to stop the teasing. Why is it that every time you offer me something new and exciting, you pull the rug out from under me as soon as I’m in love? Is this some kind of a sick, twisted game to you? Toying with my emotions like this?!

I’m sorry babe. I know, I forgave you before. The Spicy Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme made me fall for you all over again. And when it was discontinued? I still came back. Come on, baby, it’s me.

But this time it’s too much. You stopped listing my Ranchero Chicken Soft Tacos on the menu, but you always made them for me anyway. I didn’t mind the extra 20 cents. Anything just to be close to you. And then you went and changed all that tonight.

Baby, a man has needs. No no, baby it’s not like that… yes, I love you for your value. And the long hours. And how well you get along with my friends KFC and Pizza Hut Sweetheart listen… this isn’t easy but, well,  I think I should see other chains. Other chains who won’t do this to me.

Oh don’t get all high and mighty with me! Yeah, so I haven’t been there in a while, so what’s it to you? Well maybe I WAS at Wendy’s! Maybe she’s got what I need! She told me “when it’s real, you know that’s it’s real,” and how can I fight that?! MAYBE SHE WOULDN”T FORGET CHIVES ON MY DAMN CHEESY FIESTA POTATOES.

WHAT’S THIS I HEAR ABOUT YOU AND LONG JOHN SILVERS, HUH? HUH????

Oh no, don’t think I’ll come crawling back to you at 2am after a late night out with the boys. Oh, wait. Maybe I will. I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean it.

Looooove you,

The Welshman

Let me preface this by saying I’m not the best swimmer. I think this is in part due to the way my dad “taught me to swim” – around 8 years old, he simply put floaties around my ankles, tossed me over the side of the boat, and explained “If you keep moving you won’t go under, Anthony!”

I panic if the shower drain clogs.

Anyway.

So we booked a Catamaran “Booze Cruise” which was partly a misnomer from the start. Apparently Sandal’s insurance regulations do not allow dispersal of alcohol aboard the boat… at least not prior to the passengers swimming in the ocean or climbing a couple hundred feet of waterfall for some reason. Hrmm…

First stop was snorkeling. At least, for everyone else in the water. For the smart people, it was “watching people snorkel from the boat.” For the talented people, it was “snorkeling.” And for me, it was “trying not to die.” There was a Beginners Class at the front of the boat — but what the heck would they teach you? How to kick your legs? Which end to breath through? Jeesh, no thanks.

So anyway, I put on my size-too-small fins, my ridiculous safety flotation belt, and my mask and snorkel, and waddled to the back of the boat with the pros. I jumped off and into the deep blue, ready to see the wonders of the majestic ocean…

But no; instead of calm cool waters, I was dropped into a torrent of current + riptide + class IV rapids pushing my body away from the boat at at least a steady 12 knots.

So, I try my best to catch up to everyone, but it’s taking every ounce of my energy to keep up with the “guide” — and he was pulling two fat people behind him on a life-preserver. Each time I’d reach the group and catch my breath enough to don my mask and take a look below the water, the group was on the move again. I swam for 45 minutes straight and only covered 17 feet of ocean floor. And only saw 6 inches of it.

Of course, being a life guard, swim instructor, aquatics director, and secretly one-quarter mermaid, Em was swimming circles around me the entire time. At one point, I looked up at my buddy and in a sigh and told him “Just bury me at se–” but apparently Poseidon has a sense of humor, and the sentence was cut off by a tiny wave slapping me in the face and filling my nose and mouth.

Finally, it was time to go. I shot down the gulf stream current back to the stern of the boat so I could get out of purgatory the water. However, there were 3,479 other passengers who apparently felt the same as I did; and they were unfortunately better suited than I to tread water and keep their place in line.

I could have done a commercial for the freakin’ Infinity Pool;I swam as hard as I could for another 8 minutes and never got closer nor further away from the ladder that was my freedom. The last thing I remember was clinging to a splintered door as I felt Jack’s icy grip leave my own a Jamaican deck hand pulling me up and rolling his eyes.

I rolled to the deck and removed the bulky “safety items” that tried to pull me down to Davy Jones’ Locker, and decided if God had intended me to be in the water, He’da given me a boat.

In Closing: Jamaican Snorkeling = Single Worst Experience of my Entire Life.

One particular story that people enjoy is back from around 3rd grade…

[Insert Wayne's World "Flashback" Soundbite Here]

I was excited. I had spent the last several Sundays in Children’s Church preparing for our “Concert.” Each grade was split up and was learning a special song to sing in front of the adult congregation. I had perfected my grade’s song. I drove my parents nuts singing it in the car, around the house, in my sleep… I was ready. And today was the day.

We lined up by grade, and I won the election by a landslide to be Line Leader for the 3rd grade. We were ushered into the front few rows of the sanctuary, seated right next to the 4th graders, and we were called up grade by grade to perform.

5th Grade was up first (they saved the cutest least-talented youngest kids for last) and they were mediocre in my eyes. Nobody was gonna nail their respective song like I was. 4th grade was up next. The 4th grade teacher corralled her kids to the front… but for some strange reason, she thought I was the last 4th grader, rather than the first 3rd grader. I minor shuffle ensued, and before I knew it, I was standing in front of the altar with a dozen or so 4th graders, scared stiff.

I tried to explain a mistake had been made, as I looked at my still-seated peers. But it was too late. A very unfamiliar song came crackling over the PA, and I knew I had no choice but to fake it.

I’m sure in my little head I was thinking “ok, you got this… we’ve improved before…” but I was not prepared for what happened next. The words started, and I prepared to lip-sync my way outta this, but suddenly each students’ hands raised in unison, and it dawned on me… apparently this song included sign language.

I stuck out like a sore thumb. I stopped the Ashley Simpson act and focused on my hands. Or rather, the kid next to me’s hands. I couldn’t operate both body parts at the same time if I was making both up as I went. I had to look like a half-blind kid with a learning disability — mouth open, signing my signs about 2 seconds after everyone else, since I could only sit there and play catch-up.

The 3-minute song seemed to last an eternity. I took a brief glance up at where my parents were sitting. My mom was smiling big, swaying her head with the music, and jazz-handsing it up in delight. My father had a disappointed scowl and slightly hung his head in shame, as if to say “yup, that’s my Special boy…”

After the agony of the 4th grade song was over, I felt maybe I could redeem myself in the third-grade song I had practiced so religiously (pun totally intended).

But no. Apparently I was still being mistaken for a 4th grader, and the Sunday School teacher thought I was trying to crash the 3rd grade song, so I was ushered off the stage.

Of course, after Church, I was greeted with laud and praise over what a great job I had done. It was at that point I realized that adults lie. Maybe every “great job” I had ever done was equally as embarrassing. Maybe I was horrible at soccer, checkers, nintendo, and being a son in general. Maybe “great job” is adult code for “We tried, but he was trapped in the birth canal for several hours, and we’re still waiting for a malpractice settlement” or “at least his sisters turned out ok.”

But, as I said, it is life events such as this one that mold us into the people we are today. And the reason I pee my pants and cry whenever I see the deaf communicate with each other.

I’m gonna go tell my 6-month old what a great job he’s doing.

Turns out, you didn’t.

Last year every page of yours was “infected” with CADIE or other tom-foolery… Picasa, YouTube, her own website, even the lesser known google pages…

And this year, we get one page. One.

Weak.

Dear Dr. Pepper,

Listen. You know we’ve been seeing each other for a long time now. I remember when I was a kid, the first time we met, you swept me up into your bubbly arms and we’ve been together ever since. And I’d say things are pretty serious… I mean, we see each other almost every day. So I suppose I’ll say what you’ve probably known for a very long time:

I Love You.

Wow, it feels so good to finally say that after all these years! I feel like our relationship is at an entirely new level… But, that being said, there’s something else we need to talk about.

I think you should get tested.

Ummm, wait, no. What I meant to say was I need more of you. And you’re giving me less. Quite literally.

Seriously, what is the deal with this 8-Pack thing? What POSSIBLE good can come of getting LESS soda? My entire life I have learned that by some magical bio-chemical algorithm that I cannot explain, 12 sodas last exactly one week. Always.

I tried making 8 work. It didn’t. I missed you around Friday.

I tried making 16 work. It didn’t. I needed some time apart during the weekend.

12 is the  number. Why do you think twelve has its own spare word – a dozen? There’s no word for “8″ — its just eight. Flowers, Eggs, Donuts, Cookies, Beer… all good things come in 12s.Your decision to replace EVERY 12-pack in America with an 8-pack makes me seriously doubt the fact that you even graduated Medical School, Mr. Pepper.

However, unlike the other letters I’ve written, I cannot claim to boycott you. You complete me. I’ve tried the imitators, but nobody comes close to your perfect  blend of 23 Flavors.

In closing, I would just like to say that although I may love you, I don’t always have to like you.

Seriously Hoping You’ll Reconsider The Stupidest Packing Idea Ever,

The Welshman

Scale: 1 Inch = 3 Miles

Dear Ice Cream USA / Klondike Bar,

I have been a fan of your wonderful creations since my childhood. I’ve also probably tried every variety of Klondike that you’ve offered to cram down my iced gullet; Crunch, Peanut Butter, Dark Chocolate, etc., but I’ve always found my way back to the original.

After some time without one of your stickless, perfectly portioned, frozen, confectionery delights, my wife decided to pick some up as a surprise. I was most excited to see those familiar silver squares with the polar bear greeting me when I opened the freezer one night.

At first bite, I knew something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it (mostly for fear of getting sticky and chocolatey). A few days (and treats) later I realized the sticker on the packaging:

“Now with a new thicker, chocolatey shell!”

No.

I don’t want that.

What is this, New Coke? Don’t mess with a classic, Klondike. Nobody was complaining about the shell. It did it’s job; I could finish a portion before the ice cream melted or the shell shattered in my hands! But now I have to choke through what feels like 16 inches of waxy choco-crete to make my way to the gooey, creamy, delicious inside.

I now find myself walking the ice cream aisle in the grocery store muttering “What WOULDN’T I do for the old Klondike bars?” Hear me when I say this: Your new treats are but a shell of their former selves. Pun totally intended.

Rather than take a pnematic jack-hammer to attempt to crack into the seemingly bullet-proof chocolate coating, I’m forced to risk almost certain tongue-splintering while chowing down on Eskimo Pies; formerly the vastly insuperior product when it comes to choco-coated iced creams. But now, sadly, I have no choice.

I hope you find this complaint. Take a hint from your Coca-Colleagues; I will be forced to boycott your product until Klondike Klassic is released.

Not Doing Anything For The Delicious Frozen Squares You So Badly Messed Up,

The Welshman

So, in keeping with the spirit, I will now write a few poems from the top of my head.

There once was a man from Nan —— ok, just kidding.

There once was a blogger named Scott

Some say that he sure writes a lot

A LiveJournal quitter,

But never on Twitter

The End. (‘Cause that’s all that I’ve got.)

Ok, decided not to follow the “vulgar” rule on that one. Lemme try harder…

There once was a boozer from Wales

(Well, Lakeland is where from he hails)

Drank Lager and Stout

Until he passed out

And lost all the wind from his sails!

That’s more in the spirit! Lets go after my wife now…

I once knew a pretty young lass

Who was great for some fun, but alas!

She soon turned the tide

And became my Bride

Now I’ve got a pain in my ass!

(Just kidding, honey… I had to make it rhyme!)

The Story of Murray the Fetus:

We’re wonderin’ when you will come greet us.

How you came to be?

Well hmm, let me see:

The result of some strong margaritas!

Yes, even my unborn child isn’t except from amphibrachic meter-inspired ridicule. But it meets all the requirements set forth by Mr. Lear.

So, take time to remember all those dirty poems your dad used to tell you when he was drunk… and try writing a few of your own!

Congratulations, you're now in the Axis of Evil

Dear Seven-Eleven,

I have been a frequent shopper of yours over the years. You provide quality gasoline at a fair price, as well as a veritable cornucopia of refreshments and snacks. Whenever I see that Green/Red/Orange sign, I know that all my convenience store needs are ready to be addressed.

That is, until last Saturday.

We recently attended TBA Church, as part of our “church shopping.” After visiting one Sunday, they sent a $5.00 footlong gift card as a way of saying “Thanks, come back again sometime!” Fast Forward to a few days later… It was Saturday at noontime; while my truck tank said Full, my tummy-tank said Empty. I decided I would take advantage of the church’s benevolency and treat myself to one of your delicious pressed Cuban subs, some Tacos at Midnight Doritos, and a large, refreshing Super Big Gulp of Dr. Pepper (whom I also have a bone to pick with, but I digress.)

I arrived at the checkout counter with minimal wait (as usual). When I approached the young woman, I gleefully pointed out I had a gift card. My total was $6.43, but after my gift card I expected to pay $1.43 — a song for such delicious food and friendly service.

I swiped my gift card, and the attendant informed me I only had a balance of $5.00 on it. I stated I knew this, and would like to use the card, and pay the remainder with my Visa. “We can’t accept two types of payment, sir,” she informed me.

I was taken aback. I used to work in retail. I know that the main reasoning behind offering Gift Cards is because they serve two main purposes: A. The get a customer INTO your store in the first place, and B. People generally spend MORE (usually 2x) than the gift card’s amount, which increases your revenue. (Knowing reason B from experience was the reason I hovered so closely to my $5.00 mark.)

A minor tuft ensued. I reasoned “How can I spend a gift card if I want to purchase MORE than it’s amount, but I can’t use two payment types?!” but to no avail. “That’s the way our company works, sir,” was the only response I got.

I reasoned further: “So if my total was $4.88, I could use the gift card?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But then my 22 cents would basically be lost forever, because I won’t be able to use two payment types on my next purchase? Is that fair?”

“No, I suppose not, sir. But that’s just the way the company works. We can’t accept two payment types.”

By this time a small line had formed behind me, as I tried to process “the way your company works.” I cannot understand how on earth you expect anyone to use the full amount of their gift cards in your store, if you can only process “one payment type” per transaction.

I emplore you to take a hint from Home Depot, Best Buy, Wal-Mart, or dozens of other national chains that realize the potential of Gift Cards. Two payment types (gift card + cash/credit/debit) would yield MORE revenue, not to mention MORE satisfied customers.

I will be honest; I will probably top my tank off with exactly $5.00 worth of your gasoline, so I can take advantage of my “gift” card… but this will most likely be the last purchase at one of your stores for quite sometime.

In the future, should I have the choice, I will choose a competing chain for my convenience needs, because I am so disappointed in your service.

In short, you suck.

Kindest Regards,

The Welshman

Former 7-11 Customer

1. I surprised Emma for her first Mother’s Day — I did some minor re-landscaping… planted annuals, trimmed the palms, adjusted the sprinklers, added some new plants, etc.
2. In addition to that, I bought her a 80-minute Balancing Massage specifically for moms-to-be in their 2nd and 3rd trimesters.
3. We find out if “Murray,” our baby, is a Girl or a Boy on Thursday at 4pm!
4. My prediction: for some odd reason, I “know” Murray is a Girl. I just know it… I can’t explain it, but I just do. However; Tyler is going to need a neighborhood guy-friend, Ava needs two boys to fight over her, Baby Kerseyis also going to need a guy-friend, and Kennadie could also be a potential arrange-marriage mate, so I’m going to go against every instinct I have and make a prediction; It’s gonna be a Boy. (And no, I’m not hedging my bets. “BOY” is my final guess, and if I am wrong, I will admit it. – Even thought I “know” I’m wrong.)
5. I finally have some fuel for the fire. Most don’t know this, but I used to be notorious for writing angry letters to companies that I felt “wronged” me. The most I ever got was a coupon or two, to keep me coming back as a loyal customer… but the other day I realized that I have a very strong following of at least 5 readers, so maybe they will share my anguish against these companies… or at least get a kick out of what drives me crazy. So look out, Dr. Pepper, Klondike, and others… there’ll be blogs about you soon!

That’s all for now — it’s Monday and I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m not exactly in a creative mood. I know probably roughly 1/5 of my blogs state this but: A. No, I’m not dead. B. I’ll be writing more soon, and C. Emma constantly reminds me to blog, so ok, whatever you want, Honey.