Another Year of Asthetic Monstrosities. Now, Featuring Nachos and Miracles!

On the plus side, there were nachos.
And Mexican dip.
And empanadas.
And beans and rice.
And Mexican mac & cheese.
And rich, aromatic gas produced by the Mexican food.

And, possibly a stunning miracle. 

On the down side, there was this.

And this.

Last Friday, several of my boldest and most self-destructive friends gathered at our house to engage in a yearly ritual of self-induced suffering. The Gift Swap of Horror. Click on that link if you are feeling a desperate urge to learn the history of this sacred event. (The link takes you to another blog post, but it also has pictures, so it's really not a good way to escape the horror.)

The Gift Swap of Horror has developed and changed only slightly over the years. It has reduced friends to tears. It has made others laugh until they lost control of their sphincters. It has cost me some dear friends; though, in retrospect, that might also have been directly related to the loss of sphincter control.

This year, we gladly welcomed new friends to The Swap. 

Ryan and Nichole.
See how happy they look?

That's because they hadn't received their gift yet.

We, the original members of this happy crew who have been swapping gifts and causing each other to suffer for more than a decade, love it when new people join our swap.

Because new people don't get it.

We warn them; oh yes we do. But still, they don't get it.
We tell them all about the swap, explaining in graphic detail gifts from past swaps that were so horrible that to describe them here would cause you permanent mental harm.
And still these people want to play.
And they come to the swap sniggering slyly and chuckling about the gift they have brought, never suspecting that when the gifts are actually exchanged, they will be reduced to sobbing, helpless shadows of their former selves.

The new people tend to bring a gift that, at worst, might be described as "sort of tacky".
And they leave with a four foot poster of Elvis shellacked onto a cross-section of pine tree.

My friends Jay and Cris come to mind as perfect examples. Jay and Cris are both smart and fun and have excellent taste in everything. They thought our swap would be fun. We warned them against it.

"Jay. Cris," we plead. "We really like you guys. Save yourselves! Don't do it! It will ruin your lives!"

We say things like that to make them extra curious. Just to make sure they play. Because we know that they will suffer greatly. And when you play The Swap, you want people to suffer.

Jay and Cris ignored us and showed up at The Swap with a small soap dispenser that, while ugly, somewhat paled in comparison to the horrifying 2 foot tall light-up ceramic witch head that they went home with. I cannot even attach a picture, because it was so ugly, it did not show up on film.

Jay and Cris told us later that Cris spent much of their ride back home to North Carolina sobbing and weeping and lamenting the fact that she had ever met us.

The suffering of newbies is an integral part of the game, however, as it toughens them and makes them hungry for revenge.  Jay and Cris, for example showed up the next year driving a pick up truck with the entire bed shrouded in a tarp.

Everyone watching their arrival wept with fear. Then they got out of the truck carrying a tiny gift bag. And we laughed. "They didn't learn," we whispered amongst ourselves.

Kerri and I drew their names that year and Jay handed us the tiny gift bag.

"Ha, ha," I chuckled, reaching into the bag. "We all thought that your gift was taking up the whole back of the pick up. Boy, were we scared for a minute."

"I'll bet," Jay said, smiling brightly as I removed a photograph of 6 hideous purple, teal, and black velour dining room chairs from the bag. "The chairs are in the back of the truck. You want some help getting them in the house?"

And thus, they were avenged.

And this year, Ryan and Nichole stepped into the fray and, much to our bitter disappointment, proved themselves worthy of playing.

Julie, one of the old timers, suggested that newbies, on their first swap, be made to receive a gift without giving one. The executive council of elders held a high level secret meeting on the subject and decided that it was cruel and unusual and we really liked the idea.

Eventually, it was decided that newbie gifts were a sought after commodity and we would only be hurting ourselves by not letting them contribute.

The night was a festive combination of events. It was a The Gift Swap. It was also my wife Kerri's birthday. Plus, everybody brought Mexican food so guests could go home with a horrible gift and horrible gas. It added a festive olfactory element to The Swap.

Once everyone had eaten and we had sung "Happy Birthday" to Kerri a half dozen times, because she hates being sung to, it was time for the gifts.

First, some before pictures.

Ben and Ann. Happy (but nervous).

Tim and Katie. Happy (but equally nervous).

Scott and Julie (Julie offering a silent prayer for mercy from The Swap gods).

Caleb, Rayla, Alex, and Tori. (Couldn't care less about the pain the adults are inflicting on one another).

Kerri and me (putting up a false show of carefree bravado–inside, we are weeping).

The gifts, guarded by Caleb, lest, thought their collective powers of evil, they should try to escape.

And then The Swap began.

Ryan and Nichole, being newbies, were allowed to go first. They were delighted with their gift, brought by Tim and Katie.

Seeing one small corner of her gift, Nichole searches futilely for a barf bucket.

Another show of false bravado.

Behold its awe-inspiring beauty.

Nichole and Ryan were deeply awed by the transcendent beauty of their gift, a gilded, three dimensional scene of the last supper, backed with a mirror so you can always see your own look of horror when gazing upon it. In fact, their real gift didn't come until a day or so after The Swap.
Ryan and Nichole are serious mountain climbing enthusiasts (nuts). They had attempted to bag their last 4,000 footer twice before The Swap, failing both times.

After The Swap, they successfully summited Owl's Head.

Coincidence?

I think not.

They just couldn't wait to return home and continue staring at their gift.

Scott is speechless with joy. Julie, however, has much to say about their new little friend. None of it printable here.

Next up, Julie and Scott unwrapped their gift, brought by Ben and Ann. The sad-eyed embroidered bird will most certainly warm their hearts on the coldest January days.

Just before Katie burst into tears, fearing for her safety.

Tim and Katie were next. Their gift, thoughtfully supplied by Julie and Scott, was charming and creepy in equal measure.

Katie uses her gift to hide her tears of anguish.

A bargain at 50 cents.

His expression seems to say, "At night, I will come to life and kill you."

These delightful, hand made faces, framed under plastic wrap to keep them fresh, will likely come to life at night and steal Tim and Katie's souls.

Or their wallets.

Or both.

Ben and Ann were next, with our gift. They were giddy with anticipation.

Until they saw the turquoise ceramic kangaroo who will be sharing their home with them until next year.

Ann is considering using it as a decorative toilet paper holder next to the toilet.
Ben is considering using it as a toilet.

Kerri and I were next. We were delighted to have drawn Ryan and Nichole's names. Because they were the newbies. Until we unwrapped their gift.

Kerri briefly loses control of her face upon witnessing the horror of The Pink Rooster.
On the couch, Victoria is obviously delighted with our new house guest.

The giant, metal pink rooster will no doubt soon be like a member of the family. A member that we hate and never want to see again.

Despite the obvious love the kangaroo showed for the rooster, Ben and Ann refused to take the rooster, choosing instead to sunder these two loving hearts.


And then the night was over. With Mexican food percolating in our guts, we said goodbye to one another. Everyone went home to find a suitable place to display his new gift and to seek relief from the Mexican fiesta.

Ben likely found relief in the kangaroo.

Ryan and Nichole have proved themselves worthy of The Swap. And that means that next year, we need fresh meat.

Anybody want to play?

The Elizabeth Yates Award Ceremony - An Afternoon of Tasty Cookies and Boogers

"I just think that you like hearing yourself say 'booger' and 'fart', and 'underpants' in public."

That was Kerri's general assessment of the talk I gave yesterday at the Concord Public Library.

"Well, duh," I replied, "I think they gave me the award because I write about farts and boogers."

"And underpants," added my daughter, Victoria.

It is true that I may have stressed the fart and booger motif a bit more than was absolutely necessary yesterday after I was awarded the Elizabeth Yates Award. It's an award given annually to a person who inspires children to read. When Karen Landsman called me a few weeks ago to tell me I had won the award, she specifically mentioned the appeal that my books have for boys. This is a delicate way of saying that I write about disgusting things.

Naturally, when she told me that I should plan on talking for about 20 minutes, I took it upon myself to elaborate on all that is gross. I assumed that this was the entire point of the afternoon.

"I'm pretty sure the library trustees didn't need to hear about puking and eating boogers," Kerri said. "At least, not a dozen times."

"It wasn't a dozen," my son, Alex said, "No more than 10."

But the entire afternoon wasn't devoted exclusively to farts, vomit, and poop.

There were snacks to go along with it.

But, and this was sheer brilliance on the part of the organizers, before they could have snacks, people had to listen to everyone talk. Including me.

There were a variety of speakers, all effusive and eloquent.

They spoke intelligently and eloquently.

They talked about me in ways that made me sound like a real, actual writer. It made me blush.

They made kissy faces at me.

 And, after all those wonderful speakers, I began speaking and really brought the tone of the entire event down.

I did wear a tie, however, and there wasn't even a dead body in the room.

Some of my friends in attendance were visibly displeased at this point. There was evidently some slight problem with the invitations that were sent out. This was the official invite.

But, somehow, all the ones I emailed to my friends arrived looking like this:

Obviously an egregious error occurred in transmission and I'll be speaking about this to whoever is in charge of the internet.

I talked and talked and talked while the audience dreamed of cookies, cider, and munchkins, tantalizingly in sight, but just out of their reach.
Karen Landsman presented me with a certificate and a plaque and, as part of the ceremony, asked me to hang the plaque up on the wall.

This was thrilling for the audience.

And it only took me about 15 minutes to find the little hook thing and get it hung.

After I finally managed to hang it, Karen thanked everyone for coming and freed them to eat snacks.
My father-in-Law used the opportunity to fix the plaque that I had just hung. It wasn't up to his exacting standards.

Once people were free to eat, much of the hostility cleared from the air.
There was music provided by the very talented 14 year old, Madeline.

And, in a brazen, flagrant violation of the rules, we feasted in the library.

It was a fun afternoon for me because I got to talk and talk and talk and nobody could interrupt me or tell me to put a sock in it. I got snacks, a certificate, and was surrounded by family and good friends. My pals, Laura and Amy even brought gifts and cards from their students at Sandown Central School. You may recall that this is the same school where a kindergartener asked me if she could have my underpants.

Despite the fact that none of the library trustees asked for my underpants, it was a great afternoon. I'm flattered and humbled to have been given the Elizabeth Yates Award and I'll do my best to carry out the duties entrusted to me by writing about boogers even more.

Warriors with Dirty Undies.

Today, I found myself, once again, in my backyard hosing out my underpants.

It comes from keeping company with an evil, sadistic cadre of lunatics.

Evil, sadistic friends.

We are scary, right? Me, Ben, and Tim. Ben and Tim win the coolest beard/hair combo. Ever.

It all started many months ago when my buddy, Tim posted a link on Facebook about an event called The Warrior Dash. I clicked on it and was taken to a website depicting muddy people diving over flaming lakes, scaling towering walls of wrecked cars, and horking down turkey legs the size of a small child, washed down with paint-bucket-sized beers. All these images were set to a rousing heavy metal-ish soundtrack to make them seem epic and fun and exciting.

And it did seem epic and fun and exciting.

To watch.

From a distance.

To participate in such an event would likely mean–in no particular order–pain, suffering, gastro-intestinal distress, death, projectile vomiting, and more death–all the hallmarks of jogging. For this was not merely an obstacle course followed by beer and brontosaurs legs. This was a 3 mile run, punctuated by obstacles.

I will voluntarily run only under the following conditions:

1. Being chased by knife-wielding maniac.
2. Being chased by gun-wielding maniac.
3. Being chased by knife-and-gun-wielding maniac.

In any other situation, I prefer to walk, bike, saunter, drive, sashay, trot, gallop, or–depending on the occasion–dance, as a means of personal locomotion.

I believe that I made some caustic comment on Tim’s link. Something clever, along the lines of, “Are you nuts? Dry heaves are for suckers.”

And then, much to my amazement and horror, many of of my real, actual friends–friends I have know and loved for years–started posting comments like, “Yeah!” “I’m in!” “Let’s do this!”

I grew sadder and more despondent each day, seeing friend after friend fall victim to the terrific peer pressure. I knew it was only a matter of time before I cracked and joined them. I am weak.

My personal breaking point was when my friend Julie, whom I have hiked with on many occasions, lost her mind and joined this muddy death march. “Someone must watch over this poor, lost soul.” I told myself.

Plus, maybe I could convince her to stay with me as I feebly drag myself through the mud, toward the finish line and the freakishly large turkey legs that awaited us.

So, I forked over $50, signed my life away on a waiver, and joined my friends for a day of soul-shattering pain and misery.

It was decided that we should all meet at Tim’s house and caravan down to the event together. My suspicion was that this was merely a method of keeping people (like me) from chickening out at the last second. To assure that we got there in time to park, take the shuttle to the event, and register, it was further decided that we should leave Tim’s house by 8:00

In the morning.

On a Sunday.

This was, by far, the most grueling trial of the entire day. I awakened early, dragged my innocent wife and children out of bed, and headed off to my destruction.

We arrived at the emergency back-up off-site parking, conveniently located about 350 miles away from the actual event. We boarded a charted luxury school bus and, along with a few thousand equally foolhardy goons, headed off to the race.

One important element of the event, besides the beer, is the pageantry. People dress up in outlandish costumes in order to disguise the fact that they are suicidally depressed about the fact that they are about to run through 3 miles of ankle-deep mud.

The breadth and scope of the costumes was amazing. Nuns, hot dogs, gorillas, more vikings than you could count, assorted super heroes, villains, nerds, punks, and anthing else you could possibly imagine. All crammed onto a school bus, racing down I-495 on a Sunday morning. I can only imagine the other drivers, upon seeing the bus and its occupants, immediately racing to the church of their choice and praying that their children never have to go to THAT school.

When we finally disembarked, we were lead to the first officially sanctioned obstacle of the day: The Waiver Forms of Untold Suffering. They stated that we were about to, of our own volition, run through a deadly landscape of toxic water, biologically active mud, treacherous obstacles, insane participants, and, possibly, knife-and-gun-wielding maniacs.

And if we contracted some incurable disease, or fell to our deaths, or got trampled into a human jelly as a result, we agreed that it was our own stupid fault.
After which, we were ready for the actual race which, really, was nothing compared to the Signing of the Waiver.

We lined up at the starting gate along with 600 or so other fools, and awaited the thrilling blast of fire that signaled the beginning of another wave. There were waves each half hour throughout the day. The spacing was, no doubt, intended to make sure that there was enough time to cook the turkey legs in between each race.

We whooped and hollered and raced up the gentle 70 degree slope that was the beginning of the race. With 600 other people crammed onto the track, it quickly became obvious that racing was not the correct term. We sauntered up the track, strolling languidly up the scenic hill, marveling at the sweaty wall of humanity that encircled us.

A leisurely stroll up the hill with 600 of our closest friends.

Soon, we summited the hill and were set free to slip and slide in the mud as we attempted to actually race through the woods. With the single exception of The One Old Guy Who Was Trying To Prove Something, the other racers were considerate, friendly, and careful. If someone slipped and fell (and nearly everyone did) others would stop and offer assistance, or, at the very least, offer kind words of sympathy like, “Dude. That sucks.”

Everyone except The One Old Guy Who Was Trying To Prove Something. He raced full speed down every slope and up every incline, slipping and sliding, wildly out of control, his arms windmilling, taking out dozens of other participants in each of his countless, spectacular falls.

No matter how our pace altered throughout the race, it seemed that we were shadowed by this bane to humanity. There were many loud suggestions (by me) that he be tied up and placed in the path as a bonus obstacle, but to the best of my knowledge, nobody acted on that suggestion.

Early in the race, Ben took a heavy lead and we didn’t see him again for quite some time. I stayed with Julie and Tim and throughout the race, we marveled at Ben’s endurance and speed. “Wow! He really must be doing great!”

I’m sad to report that many of the obstacles did not appear quite as daunting in person as they had online. Perhaps it was the absence of the heavy metal-ish music in the background, but I was underwhelmed with the Bunch Of Tires Dangling From Ropes obstacle.

To provide a more authentically difficult event for each other, Tim, Julie, and I heaved the tires at one another, but it was futile.

We continued slogging through the mud, over the barricades, under the barbed wire (which was framed with 2x4’s for our protection) and finally caught up with Ben at the climbing wall. It seems that poor Ben was under the impression that he had fallen behind us and was running at this superhuman pace to try to catch up with us. All the while, we were many hundreds of miles behind him.

The climbing wall was a 15 foot monument to suffering with ropes dangling from the top of it. The idea was that you grab the rope, scale the wall, and do not fall to your death. In theory, it was simple. In practice, when you are tired, the wall and ropes are enrobed in slippery mud, and there is a steady stream of fellow dashers eagerly awaiting a turn, the challenge is multiplied a bit.

We all eventually managed to get over it, even those of us with pathological fears of heights. And then, reunited, we linked arms and skipped joyously to the flaming logs that we were to hurdle.

One more climbing wall later, we stood at the crest of the mud slide, a slippery slope that mirrored the same hill we had started the race on. We tried waiting for a clear opportunity so we could all safely jump onto the hill together, but there was no such chance. We simply hurled ourselves on to the hill and proceeded to have mud injected at high velocity into every available crack, crevice, and orifice on our bodies.

Mud Slide Colonic - Ben, Tim, and me half way down - Julie awaiting her turn at the top.

With the exception of the sand, the grass, the rocks, and the other people, it was extremely enjoyable. Until we stopped at the bottom and the big guy that I never even saw coming slammed his knee into my cheek. After a quick check to make sure all my teeth were still intact and a brief apology to the lady whose rear-end I had slammed my face into, we were headed for the finish line.

I limped over the finish line with Julie; Ben and Tim having been trapped in another wave of runners slightly behind us.

Happy Warriors with Bananas. Julie, me, Ben, and Tim.

Happier Warriors with Beer.

More Bananas.

We scraped what mud we could out of our eyes and staggered over to the rinsing area where snow making machines had been set up to blast water at us. The problem with this set up was that if you were near the back of the crowd, you were merely pelted with other racer’s dirty rinse water. If you did manage to get to the front of the crowd, the water spray was so powerful that it was like having your face sandblasted with ice.

Jet spray of pain and suffering.

We hobbled on to the bus that was to take us back to our cars, and headed back to Tim’s house for swimming and beverages. It seemed that, since this entire day was essentially his fault, it was only fitting that we mess up his house with our muddy, bruised bodies.

 Ben had the most impressive looking injury of the day.

Julie had the dirtiest ears.

The biggest question of the evening was, “What are we going to dress up as next year?”